


Durin's Bane

by perkynurples



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Rock Band, HRBB14, M/M, Rating May Change, Tags May Change
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-12-16
Updated: 2015-02-24
Packaged: 2018-03-01 19:07:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 30,043
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2784311
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/perkynurples/pseuds/perkynurples
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Thorin is a rock legend, or he was, until he took a ten year break after his father’s death. Resting on album sales, royalties and his favorite alcoholic beverage Thorin had given up on music. Until his label boss Gandalf calls him and tells him he has a chance to do a comeback tour, a long, final series of concerts.<br/>Of course Thorin’s old PR Manager quit after a falling out a few years back, and Thorin has taken on a solo mentality, so when Gandalf plops Bilbo in the position, things get complicated, and interesting.</p><p>Fill for the <a href="http://hobbitreversebang.tumblr.com">Hobbit Reverse Big Bang</a>!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Operation: Prissy Diva Needs A Second Chance

**Author's Note:**

  * For [IronPanda](https://archiveofourown.org/users/IronPanda/gifts).



> Art by pandamani [here](http://pandamani.tumblr.com/post/105372043049/my-second-entry-for-the-rbb-is-a-rock-star-au)!

He doesn't remember getting old. Granted, he doesn't remember a great many things from the past two (three, if he's being generous and horrendously truthful) decades of his life, and is probably better off for it, but the lack of this particular knowledge is a bit distressing, to say the least.

His bones creak and his lungs rattle, and that's on a _good_ day. The first thing he craves in the morning isn't a bottle of beer or a smoke anymore, but his cholesterol medication and a glass of water – not that that ever stops him from smoking _or_ drinking, of course.

His bike –  _Thorin's_ bike – sits in the garage on most days as nothing more than a grim reminder, and whenever Dwalin does drive it, rather than feeling good and safe in all the familiar leather and the roaring of the engine, he's... worried.

Whenever he forgets to touch the drums for a couple of days, his knuckles and wrists ache like a bitch, and he rubs some feeling back into them with a distinct sense of disgust.

All in all, what matters is that he's not even fifty, but feels ninety-five and on his way to a well-deserved grave on most days.

 

Not that anyone needs to know that, of course.  He still gets plenty of offers, still knows how to hold his liquor  better than anyone – hell, the lanky bleating boys barely out of high school they call musicians these days are under the table after one wine spritzer, and  anything stronger than beer would probably dissolve their innards – and if anything, shaving off the mohawk a couple of years back and deciding to go bald made him look even more evil, much to his delight. And so he wears his leather and drinks his beer and flashes his tattoos, and drums with as much violent vigor as when he was twenty five whenever he gets the chance, and it's enough. Should be enough.

What he needs is  _other people_ believing it's enough, and leaving him the hell alone. What he  _doesn't need,_ is getting  unexpected phone calls in the middle of the week, making his stomach turn and his cholesterol spike even though he's been staying off meat for days now – all in all ruining his evening in every way imaginable.

“You're fucking joking.”

“I assure you I'm not. He approached me himself.”

“That's a little difficult to believe,” Dwalin scoffs, unseeing eyes still glued to the TV, his frown deepening by the second, “he doesn't _approach_ anyone.”

“Did I say approach? I meant reacted in exactly the way I'd anticipated, to an offer I'd made sure he wouldn't know came from me. Regardless of the details, he wants a second chance, and I'm willing to give it. But neither he nor I can do it without you.”

“A second chance,” Dwalin laughs bitterly, “he's blown his way through several of those over the years, don't you think?”

“I know. Let's not call it that, then – let's call it a... a one last hurrah. We can give him a sort of a reunion tour, definitely a greatest hits CD, then see where that goes...”

“ _Reunion?_ There's nothing to _reunite,_ Gandalf, or have you forgotten that?” Dwalin sighs with much less venom than he'd intended – he _does_ feel old.

The other end of the line remains silent for a moment, and Dwalin catches a tidbit of a weather reporter  on the TV,  warning about unprecedented hailstorms – fitting, especially when they're in the form of an ancient acquaintance showing up unannounced to  mess with his blood pressure.

“Well, there's you,” the man says almost kindly, and Dwalin rolls his eyes.

“In what way, exactly?” he grumbles, “there's a reason I haven't spoken to him in all those years. Look, you know I've always admired your _utter stupidity_ when it comes to never giving up on people, but _I_ can't deal with him anymore. Not to mention I _don't want to._ ”

“And you don't have to!” Gandalf exclaims suspiciously cheerfully, “that's the beauty of it. Well, not right away. That's what PR managers are for, aren't they?”

“Hah, yeah, right,” Dwalin huffs, “I know for a fact my brother is on the other side of the world right now, and even if you did manage to get a hold of him, I'm pretty sure he would refuse to take his old job back in less words than me right now.”

“I'm not talking about your brother,” Gandalf says simply, “I wouldn't dare disrupt _his_ peaceful retirement.”

“Right. So what you're saying is you found someone naive enough to try their hand at wrangling Thorin for a week or two before they get fed up with him and leave just like everyone else? I'm sure that's just a waste of perfectly nice employees of yours, Gandalf.”

“No no,” Gandalf chuckles, and Dwalin can _see_ his satisfied little smile, “I've found someone who can actually get the job done. You'll see.”

“I'll _see?_ What the hell does that mean?”

The doorbell rings then, the shrill sound cutting through the quiet of his apartment, and no amount of alcohol and other substances over the year s have dulled Dwalin's senses when it comes to recognizing the stinking feeling of suspicion.

“ _Please_ tell me that's you at the door,” he growls, and Gandalf simply giggles and supplies, entirely too peppy for Dwalin's tastes: “Oh, relax. It'll be fun. We'll speak soon, alright?”

And with that, a tiny little  _click_ announces the end of  _that_ unsettling conversation, and Dwalin begins to get  _really_ angry.

“Gandalf? _Gandalf!_ Oh, you are kidding me, I'm going to...”

The doorbell rings again, almost accusatory now, and despite himself, Dwalin slinks off to answer it. Oh, he's  _definitely_ getting too old for this shit.

 

** T wo Weeks Earlier **

 

Light. He despises light. Despises the way it assaults him, reminding him sarcastically that it's day now, and thus a time when normal people... do things. It's a good thing he's not normal people.

Rolling out of bed might take seconds or hours, he's genuinely not counting. It would be very poetic, stepping on one of yesterday's empty bottles, slipping and breaking his neck, but as it is, his reality is much less exciting, and he stubs his toe  on the door frame on his way out, the loud  _ 'Fuck!'  _ that entices in turn reminding him that he's utterly parched. There is a reason he hates mornings, and this is certainly a good portion of it.

Even when it turns out to be... not morning, but in fact long past lunch time. But who's keeping count. He feels like he's forgetting something, though. Something that will make his 'morning' even more hellish? Quite probably.

The house is quiet save for a distant whirr he soon decides is the maid hoovering somewhere, and he slinks downstairs with all the grace of a recently tranquilized animal, all his hopes materialized in the form of a glass of water first, something stronger following shortly after.

The kitchen does yield its wonders, and he's in the midst of contemplating if he has it in him to make eggs and bacon, or if he's going to have to bribe  Berta  the maid to do it, when he hears a sound that makes it very clear just how much  _ worse  _ his morning can still get.

The doorbell hasn't worked in years, probably, and he hasn't bothered to have it fixed, but the banging on the door still echoes – it's an old door. Right. If he leaves right now through the back porch, he can pretend he never came back yesterday, and they'll go away eventually. He listens intently, until he almost convinces himself that he'd dreamed it, that it was just his hangover hammering at his skull.

_Bang bang bang._

Or not.

“Oh, fuck off...” he growls, then louder, “Berta! Answer the damn door!”

No response from anywhere in the house – of course, she must have her damn earphones in, listening to whatever she considers music...

One more set of bangs, and he turns from disgusted to livid. He doesn't need this. He doesn't  _ want  _ this. Gandalf should have known better than to actually turn up, it'll be entirely his fault if he ends up punched in the face.

Ignoring the rising headache – or, more accurately, letting it make him properly angry – he marches up to the door, flinging it open just as the man standing outside is about to knock on it some more, thus making him stagger forward. Still, he looks incredibly chipper when he looks up at him, and god, he still wears those stupid hats, god dammit, it's like nothing's changed...

“Thorin!” he exclaims, “good to see you're up and about!”

“Gandalf,” Thorin says coolly, barely sparing him or the man next to him a look before stating dryly: “I've changed my mind.”, and slamming the door in their faces.

-

 

Everybody knows the story. He's heard a dozen like it, they've been happening throughout the history of the business every couple of years, like clockwork – success, alcohol, drugs, tragedy, in different variations and mixtures, leaving different lives in different states of disarray. If you want your career to survive  countless rehabs, and performances ruined because you'd rather smash your guitars and yell at people than actually perform , you must be either very smart or very lucky, and Thorin Oakenshield was neither.

Not for a lack of potential, either. No,  _ Durin's Bane _ was right there alongside the best of the best for a good decade, up to a point where...  _ The Rolling Stone,  _ was it?, gave them a very generous prophecy of naming them the next Zep. Very fancy, very loud, very unforgiving, very,  _ very _ fast to burn out.  Or that's how Bilbo has always understood it.

Their first record was a smash hit, as was the second and third one, and so on and so forth, a common success story in the eighties if you had a good label to take care of you and some talent to back it up. They were all guitars and violent drumming – oh, the solos were unforgettable – and the lead's rough but melodic voice and rugged appearance, featuring a propensity for leather and a bare chest,  guaranteed them visual appeal and a swiftly growing fanbase.  They  were young and wild and fast to catch on, but Bilbo has always wondered if their name had anything to do with everything – calling yourself a bane of  _ anything _ is a cocky thing to do, but using your  old family name to boot is just asking for trouble, or at least for someone to call you pretentious (he remembers reading the interview where Thorin explained it still, mostly because he had the big black and white photographs that came with it stuck to the walls in his room as posters throughout his early college years).

Bane or not, the band was ruined almost overnight – with a big US tour in the books and fans falling in love with them left and right, Thorin started canceling concerts by the dozen, and there really wasn't anything anyone could do about that but watch and exchange  _ told-you-so's _ . He'd always been a problematic figure to say the least, an asshole to put it more clearly, and by the end of it, he'd succeeded at driving away every single person willing to work with him, starting and ending with his fellow band members. Only later on did the media connect the dots and figured out his outburst must have happened on account of his father dying unexpectedly, but Thorin showed no signs of calming down  _ or  _ returning to the business, and his last big stunt before he chose to fade into obscurity and live out the rest of his life depending on his royalties and alcohol, was punching the first reporter who dared come up to him and ask about his life.

So yes, a boring story, in a way – only now, for some reason, Bilbo himself has become a part of it.

 

“It's a family mansion.”

“Hm?” Bilbo blinks the daze of his thinking away and looks from Gandalf in the driver's seat to the road ahead.

“His grandfather built it with his own hands, or some such thing. Excellent if you want to hide away from civilization, wouldn't you say?”

“Jesus,” Bilbo gapes at the tall roof and the surrounding greenery, all of it a bit derelict, with that distinct vibe of not really being cared for the way it deserves or needs, but beautiful nevertheless.

They're not even that far out of London yet, but still everything around here has that wild quality, miles of moors stretching as far as the eye can see, the pines surrounding the ancient gloomy building welcoming them with a certain hostility.

“Good for dying of alcohol poisoning and rotting away for a month before anyone finds you, too, I should think,” he remarks dryly, forgetting the momentary nervous flutter in his chest swifter than it came, and Gandalf chuckles.

“He's very much alive. Or certainly was yesterday when I spoke to him. His sobriety on the other hand, that's always up for discussion.”

“Remind me why I said yes to this,” Bilbo sighs, and it is more of a rhetorical question, but Gandalf replies anyway: “Because you're the best. And you love a challenge. And you've been sitting at home for far too long.”

It's true. Bilbo's royalties certainly aren't fallen rock god royalties, and would only last him so long. As for other reasons... well, let's just say that Gandalf has always had a knack for turning up exactly at the right time, and convincing Bilbo to get back to work was only a matter of reminding him that he couldn't hide away from the real world forever – Gandalf has always known how to make people just the right amount of angry, so that they would agree just to shut him up, but actually want to do the thing he'd offered them, often without even knowing it. He wonders if he did the same with Thorin Oakenshield.

One day soon, he's going to have to ask Gandalf why he's kept the man signed up with his label for all these years, despite the fact that he hasn't produced anything new for a decade, despite the fact that he's surely far more trouble than he's worth. He senses there's far more to the story than he's bound to learn any time soon, but that certainly won't stop him from trying.

 

The gravel of the driveway crunches under the wheels of Gandalf's car as it comes up in front of the house in a wide arc and stops, and as Bilbo clambers out, he tries to peek through the tall windows inside, but for all intents and purposes, the house looks entirely abandoned, and a tad ominous.

But that doesn't stop Gandalf, who trots up the couple of old stone stairs to the beautiful ancient front door, obviously expecting Bilbo to follow him.

Ringing the doorbell produces no sound whatsoever, and Gandalf frowns a bit before simply lifting up his cane and banging on the door with vigor, making Bilbo startle a bit. They listen for a moment, but aside from the birds chirping high up in the treetops, and the wind embracing the building's rafters and odd angles, everything is completely silent.

“Maybe he's not at home-” Bilbo suggests, but Gandalf bangs on the door again, even louder, before he can even finish that sentence.

“He's not getting out of this that easily,” he says sternly, and then, at last, they hear a largely indiscernible shout from inside, rather angry too, if Bilbo is any judge of that.

For his part, Gandalf seems rather satisfied though, and he winks at Bilbo, who is in turn growing increasingly more uneasy. The sound of footsteps approaching soon becomes unmistakable, and yet Gandalf raises his cane to knock again – just as he's about to do it, the door flies open, and they come face to face with Thorin Oakenshield, if even for a fleeting second. That's how long it takes the man – topless and _all hair,_ Bilbo's stupefyingly one-track mind supplies swiftly – to size them both up and growl a cold, simple 'I've changed my mind' in response to Gandalf's cheerful greetings, and slam the door in their faces.

Or at least attempt to, because Gandalf acts surprisingly quickly for his age, preventing the door from shutting entirely with his cane, and opening it right back up, trotting inside without a care in the world, as if Thorin Oakenshield isn't very visibly in the mood to murder him.  Bilbo follows only highly reluctantly.

“God, you're still here?” Thorin exclaims desperately, turning back to gaze at them only momentarily on his march deeper into the house, and Gandalf follows him surely, as if they've done this a billion times before – and they probably have.

“We're still here. We had a deal, remember?”

“Fuck the deal! I don't want your charity.”

“I'm not offering you _charity,_ Thorin, I'm offering a second chance. You said yourself that you were, and I quote, _inclined to try._ Eh? Wait here.”

That last sentence is aimed at Bilbo, who simply nods and lingers behind as Gandalf follows the man to god knows where,  and from what he hears of the growing argument, Bilbo is more than happy  not to be a part of it himself. Instead, he takes a good look around.

The interior is much less pompous than he had expected, to be honest – no life-sized cutouts or posters of Thorin staring at him from the walls, no over-the-top statues or paintings or any of the stuff he's come to associate with the whimsical or sometimes just downright tacky tastes of rockstars of much less fame than Thorin Oakenshield. There is a number of black and white photographs lining the staircase, as well as a bunch of good old-fashioned gramophone records, framed and all – must be all the best-selling hits. But Bilbo doesn't dare venture much further than the hall, really – the whole building has a strange feeling about it, something  hanging in the air  like a heavy invisible fog. A s if it's not meant for just one lone person to live in.

The photographs he  _can_ see  from where he's standing  depict the original band, as well as a lot of other people Bilbo either doesn't recognize at all, or recognizes perfectly and can't quite believe are there, partying it up on this very staircase or what looks like the back porch of the house – all in all, that is what this...  _manor,_ for the lack of a better word, is used to, not one man fallen from grace drinking his issues away.

“Yeah, well you can take your record deal and shove it up your ass for all I care!”

Oh, speak of the devil.

Thorin stomps back into the hall, only noticing Bilbo halfway up the stairs, narrowing his eyes – he does have a certain breathtakingly menacing quality about him, Bilbo concedes,  what with his six-feet-something burly build and both the beard and the long unruly mane of dark hair still in place, looking almost the same as it did all those years ago when all of it (plus his piercing blue eyes and his smooth voice with the slightly rough, silky timbre) was what at least half of  _Durin's Bane's_ success was based on. B ut  that ruggedly handsome quality is somewhat hindered by  his scowl, surly enough to curdle milk,  the several  sizes too small  t-shirt with his own band logo he is now wearing, and the fact that he trips over his own feet and curses under his breath, looking around almost as if to check if anyone saw.

Bilbo quirks an eyebrow.

“Who the hell are you?” Thorin utters tersely, “the gardener I never bothered to hire?”

“That depends,” Bilbo shrugs, “is your garden also a prickly asshole?”

He's pleased to see he's managed to catch  Thorin off guard, if only for a second – he opens his mouth, but the no doubt desired  _prickly_ response just doesn't come, and he just huffs and frowns, stomping up the stairs and quickly disappearing. Alright, the eternal prissy teenager kind – Bilbo sees why Gandalf would think to ask him of all people to handle this manchild, but he's not entirely convinced yet.

“Bilbo, dear fellow, come inside, don't be shy,” Gandalf's dull call comes from somewhere ahead in the maze of this building, “I've just put the kettle on!”

Bilbo snorts at the surreality of the situation, but then Gandalf  _is_ the type to make tea, always, anywhere – he finds him swiftly enough, moving about in the large but otherwise surprisingly normal-looking kitchen as if it is his own, only smiling when he sees Bilbo.

“So we're just... going to have tea here?” Bilbo asks, Gandalf whistling as he scours the cabinets for mugs.

“I don't see why not. I've been witness to much fouler things happening in this kitchen, believe me.”

“Hmm, yes, I don't doubt that. But...”

“Don't worry about Thorin. He'll come back eventually, when he cools off.”

“Charming,” Bilbo mutters, hovering by the entrance before moving on to explore the view outside the window.

“Wow. This place does need a gardener,” he mumbles.

“Pardon me?”

“Nothing, nothing.”

Gandalf makes tea, and Bilbo's fingertips trail the windowsill, half expecting to be leaving little paths in dust, but everything is unexpectedly clean. Save for... oh yes, there they are, lined up by the trash can almost neatly, Jims and Johnnies and other deceitfully optimistically named beverages – or the empty bottles that remain, to be exact.

But Bilbo only pays those very little attention, perfectly expected as they are – no, he's much more interested in the aforementioned garden. The window becomes a full wall of glass as he ventures into what must be (one of?) the living room(s), and behind it, a disheveled wilderness rather than any sort of neat backyard, trees that must be decades old, unkempt walkways and untended flowerbeds... It's all very poetic, really, and Bilbo doesn't have to guess very hard to come up with why it's all so forgotten, but he mulls it over in his head anyway.

He knows better than to be intrigued before even exchanging one word of polite conversation with his client, he really does, but... oh well. He'll just tell everybody he needed the money.

 

The kettle boils, and right on time too – he's beginning to feel like he's trespassing, especially upon taking a better look at the living room, the leather armchairs and sofa, the  _fireplace,_ the bookshelves... Thorin Oakenshield could have turned this place into a den comprised of décor ranging from slightly eccentric to downright offensive, but instead it almost seems like he's trying to preserve... something.

“Oh, this place is a regular mausoleum, yes,” Gandalf supplies almost cheerfully when Bilbo brings it up with him, “you should see the attic.”

“I think I'll pass, thanks,” Bilbo sighs, “so... are we just going to sit here and let him stew in his own juices long enough so that he feels obliged to come back?”

“If you feel like it. This tea really is delicious. I think it's the one I actually bought for him last year. Remarkable.”

“Gandalf.”

“He'll be here in no time, you'll see,” Gandalf smiles, but measures Bilbo with a look he's long since come to suspect – curious, as if he's assessing his reactions, _waiting_ for something.

“I'm less inclined by the minute to take the job, you know,” Bilbo sees fit to remind him.

“Oh, come now, where's your fighting spirit?” Gandalf chuckles, “take it as a challenge! That man needs your help.”

“If that man needs _anything,_ it's a punch in the face. And rehab, probably,” Bilbo retorts indifferently after a glance at the empty bottles by the wall.

“He's got a fruitful history of both, believe me,” Gandalf laughs, “but now he's asking for a second chance, though he might not look it. You're the only one who can get him back into shape and back to top. You won't be stuck with him for life, I promise you that, it's just one tour, maybe a greatest hits CD, who knows... And you're the right man for the job, I know you are. You're the _only_ man for the job-”

“Alright. Just. Enough,” Bilbo sputters, waving his hand fussily, then pointing an indignant finger at Gandalf, “shame on you. My savior complex days are over now.”

“Are they,” Gandalf chuckles, and before Bilbo can complain any more, he adds, “it'll be fun. You'll be working for _me,_ so he won't be able to fire you, _or_ have much say in any of your decisions really. And you'll have my full support should you choose to actually punch him in the face.”

“And should I choose to enroll him in rehab a week into working with him?” Bilbo quips.

“Then you'd be doing him and the whole business a favor, probably,” Gandalf replies dryly enough for Bilbo to laugh at long last.

 

It could almost be another lovely afternoon spent chit-chatting about nothing of any real importance, just one out of hundreds he's spent with Gandalf like this – exceptional tea and good conversation, and... one rockstar past his prime slinking out of his hiding to join them at one point, much like Gandalf had predicted.

He makes a show of keeping stubbornly silent at first, grabbing himself a beer from the fridge (which is, as Bilbo notices, just that – a lot of beer, some food, but the only green are the labels on the bottle after bottle), sipping on it and lounging by the kitchen counter, at a safe enough distance so that he's exempt from regular human contact, simply glaring at them from behind his sunglasses, a universal 'Hide The Bags Under Your Eyes Under The Pretense Of Looking Smooth' model.

“You wanted to see the record,” he utters at long last, and it takes Bilbo but a second to realize he doesn't yet exist in Thorin Oakenshield's reality – Gandalf simply exclaims in happy agreement, and Thorin saunters into the adjoining living room, Gandalf following him excitedly, his wink obviously a suggestion that Bilbo follow.

He listens to Gandalf's elated _can't-believe-you-found-it's_ and _oh-this-is-fantastic's_ , slowly but surely coming to terms with the fact that they're not planning on including him in the conversation one bit.

“It's damaged, though,” Thorin declares, slumping on the sofa and flinging his feet up at the table, and Gandalf handles the ancient thing ever so carefully.

“This is remarkable,” he sighs almost reverently, “come see this, Bilbo.”

“Keep your hands off it,” Thorin barks at him, adding upon Bilbo's glare a highly stilted, “if you please.”

The sleeve is old and frayed, and Gandalf doesn't dare slide the disc out of it, simply turns it over in his slender fingers – the cover art is a strange painting of what looks like some sort of gem, but before Bilbo can read any further than the words ' _Homeward Journey',_ Thorin is suddenly by their side, taking the thing out of Gandalf's hands with utmost care, but resolutely nevertheless, putting it back among his collection, dozens upon dozens of records stacked neatly in shelves that Bilbo hadn't noticed when he first ventured into this room.

“Shame we can't listen to it,” Gandalf offers, but Thorin only hmph's.

“Whose album was it?” Bilbo asks curiously, “I don't think I've seen it before.”

“Oh, actually, interesting story, that-” Gandalf starts, but is interrupted by Thorin's groan and a grumpy: “Alright, look. While I'm _overjoyed_ that you decided to stop by, Gandalf, I can only take so much. Let's do this now or never, alright?”

Gandalf simply observes him for a moment, his look amused but otherwise highly unreadable, and yet again, Bilbo catches a glimpse of some sort of familiarity between the two – he's suddenly very interested to learn all about the history there.

“Very well then. I'm glad you decided to see reason,” Gandalf smiles.

“What I saw was a lingering annoyance in my home. Get on with it.”

“Hmm. Then let me start with introducing to you my good friend and one of the feistiest PR managers out there, Bilbo Baggins.”

The snort of laughter, much like every other mannerism Bilbo has witnessed from Thorin so far, is entirely expected.

“What, _this guy?_ You're kidding me, right? What is he, like sixteen?”

“That's rich, coming from someone who's been destroying their liver since _that very age._ ”

“Oh, passing out judgment already? A real professional you have there, Gandalf.”

“Just calling it as I see it.”

“Yeah, alright, fuck you too-”

“Gentlemen, _please,_ ” Gandalf interrupts, deceptively cheerfully, but resolutely nevertheless.

Thorin crosses his arms even tighter and looks away, while Bilbo merely rolls his eyes, offering a shrug to Gandalf's nearly imperceptible head shake.

“Bilbo here is known for his no-nonsense attitude and determination, _neither of which you currently possess,_ Thorin.”

It is Bilbo's turn to laugh, and the nasty look Thorin shoots him is readable enough even through his aviators.

“I don't care. This is a goddamn low blow, Gandalf. You promise me someone good, and bring _this?_ I'm not letting some... fresh-faced fucking... _upstart_ handle my business for me.”

“Your _business_ is in ruins, in case you haven't noticed,” Gandalf says firmly, and yet almost kindly, the way only he knows, much nicer than Bilbo would ever care to be, “now I am _willing_ to help you, but it will be on _my_ terms. Working with _my_ people. Right now, Bilbo isn't too keen on working with you either, I imagine-”

“That's putting it mildly.”

“-but I do believe the two of you working _together_ can get this show back on the road. The business as you know it no longer exists, Thorin. Everything happens like _this,_ ” he snaps his fingers sharply, “fancies rise and fall before you can blink. _That_ is what you're about to challenge, all these kids and _upstarts_ who are _so much quicker_ on their feet than you ever were, and ready to bite and scratch their way to the top. If you really think you can do this alone, then be my guest. But you asked me to find someone who could do the job well, and I've found Bilbo. You must trust me on this. And besides, if at any point you get fed up with each other, I'm sure Bilbo will be more than happy to step back and leave you to rot.”

“Truer words were never spoken,” Bilbo offers a surly smile, and Gandalf says, “it's entirely up to you, my boy.”

 

“Well, that went easier than expected,” Gandalf sighs once the doors of his car shut close behind them.

“Yeah,” Bilbo utters pensively, “remind them that they've never really grown up, and they tend to budge.”

They're one reluctant signature from Thorin Oakenshield richer, and once Bilbo puts his on top, he'll have... well, money to feed  himself and  his cat with, for one, not to mention something to take his mind off... things, and yet he can't quite shake the feeling that something isn't quite right. Maybe he's just unused to this – having actual work lined up for him. Thorin will be a pain in the ass and a load of trouble, but nothing Bilbo hasn't dealt with before, surely.

He's professionally curious, and that's a good sign, as far as he's concerned. Yes.

“What's the matter?” Gandalf asks him as they leave the sharp shapes of Thorin's house behind, slowly sinking into the dim glow of dusk.

“Oh... nothing. Nothing.”

“So you'll take the job?”

“Do I... I was under the impression that I didn't have a choice?”

“You always have a choice,” Gandalf notes kindly, upon which Bilbo groans, arching his head back, stretching his neck – he really had been sitting quietly for far too long, and he's unaccustomed to his mind racing with new ideas and plans of action. Or perhaps it's just that strange big house in the middle of nowhere, leaving unreadable impressions of something vaguely cozy at the back of his mind, like remembering a childhood home he'd forgotten he ever lived in.

“I'll take it,” he says simply, “I could use the excitement, to be honest. I'll try not to quit within a week.”

“That's already more bravery than the last guy had.”

“There was a last guy?”

“Long story,” Gandalf smiles.

Another one, apparently.

“Right,” Bilbo summons a smile of his own, “so, what's our first step in Operation: Prissy Diva Needs A Second Chance?”

“Oh, the most exciting part right at the very beginning,” Gandalf beams, “getting _Durin's Bane_ back together.”

 


	2. Two Can Play At This Game

The man on his doorstep is incredibly short – that's the first thing Dwalin registers, glaring at him somewhat dumbfounded. A mop of honey-brown curls bobbing about a face with features that can only be described as  _sunshiny,_ the dude beams at him in a sort of confusingly polite manner.

“Hi!” he exclaims, “I'm Bilbo. Gandalf sent me.”

“Yeah, I just...” Dwalin gestures somewhat dumbly to try and describe the odd and slightly infuriating phone call he's just had, and Bilbo raises an eyebrow, just one eyebrow, very endearingly.

“Can I come in? I won't bother you long.”

“I suppose,” Dwalin grunts, and thus surrenders to whatever the world is planning for him that involves Gandalf sounding excited about Thorin, when no one has sounded excited about Thorin in _year_ _s,_ and sending this guy to  do... what exactly?

“I expect you've heard what we're trying to do.”

“The impossible, yeah,” Dwalin utters, watching Bilbo take his shoes off without really being prompted or expected to.

“Some would say,” Bilbo smiles, following Dwalin inside the house obediently, “but we're confident that with some _very hard_ work, we can get the job done.”

“Hmm,” Dwalin rumbles, “so who's the miracle worker who's going to drag Thorin back into the light, then? Gandalf didn't say.”

“That would be me.”

Dwalin  snorts a laugh despite himself, but Bilbo merely stares at him, something a bit disconcerting in his calm, polite gaze.

“Right, uh, of course. Sorry,” Dwalin tries to mask the grin as best he can, “that's... yeah. What did Thorin have to say about that – you?”

“Nothing particularly nice yet,” Bilbo grins right back, “but we're working on it.”

“Uh-huh,” Dwalin chuckles dryly, deciding that a bit of entertainment never hurt anyone, and that he can spare some time imagining Thorin being babysat by someone who looks like the personification of a fluffy children's plush toy.

“Look, we thought Thorin might be able to fly solo at first,” Bilbo says casually, accepting when Dwalin gestures for him to sit down, suddenly feeling somewhat awkward in his own home – he rarely entertains visitors anymore, “but the truth is – and he's been disagreeing with this ever since we told him, I think you should know – the truth is that he's at his strongest when backed up by a solid band. We considered hiring studio musicians to do the bulk of the work, but honestly, I don't think that would do the job _or_ be fun at all, come to think of it.”

“Nothing about playing with Thorin is _fun,_ ” Dwalin supplies simply, “he was shit at people all those years ago, I'm pretty sure he's even more shit at people now.”

“Can't argue with that,” Bilbo offers a small smile, “but he did sign a contract agreeing to try and be a little less horrible for the time being.”

“Really? You made him sign something?”

Bilbo nods.

“Nothing too complicated, really. We can't really begin moving things ahead until there's a band, you see.”

“Well, you're going to have to look hard to find one,” Dwalin shrugs, leaving Bilbo on his sofa and moving on to scour the kitchen for something of agreeable enough quality to host him with.

“I understand you're the only one... currently without a contract,” Bilbo calls.

“Nice choice of words. Yeah, I'm freelance. No more inclined to work with Thorin, though, I can tell you as much.”

“Hmm. No matter how beneficial the offer, you won't change your mind?”

“All the money in the world wouldn't be enough to convince me, let's put it that way,” Dwalin tells him, back in the living room with two glasses of... well, juice, because that's all he drinks these days if he doesn't want to feel like his heart is about to burst first thing in the morning.

“Besides,” he continues, feeling for some strange reason like he owes this weird guy turning up at his doorstep out of nowhere at least some explanation, “I wouldn't do much good on my own. You can't build a good show around a singer and a drummer, and that's all this will ever amount to – no one else will ever be willing to work with Thorin, not close-quarters anyway.”

“Why don't you leave that to me,” Bilbo smiles, with a strange sort of confidence that ticks Dwalin off in a way.

“Look, I'm the only one left, it's that simple,” he says curtly and a tad more harshly than he'd perhaps intended, “Bifur will never play an instrument again, and Dain moved overseas to get away from Thorin, for fuck's sakes. It's cute that you guys think you can restart him, but it's impossible, I'm telling you. The band's dead, and it should stay dead.”

Bilbo peers at him over his glass of juice, stuck halfway to his mouth, and looks pensive, but also almost... amused?

“What?”

“Oh, nothing,” Bilbo sighs, “it's just that... I've worked with Thorin for roughly two weeks now, and I think it's fantastic that you people had managed to last with him for years.”

“Huh,” Dwalin comments on that, slightly confused by the change of topic.

“But here's the thing,” Bilbo says, “I'm getting him back out there, whether he likes it or not. He wants that second chance, even though he acts anything but, and it's my job to give it to him. With or without you.”

Dwalin glares at him, with his glass of juice grasped in both his hands, and his stupid polka-dotted socks and his ridiculous fake flower on the lapel of his blazer,  and that vague smile that could mean anything,  and for a second, he thinks he sees what Gandalf might see in him that would make him believe he has it in him to wrangle Thorin more or less successfully.

He suddenly feels disgustingly old.

“More juice?” he asks sourly.

-

 

Bilbo thinks he's glad his line of work w ould probably never give him enough time to have children,  even if he wanted them – adults can be just as much hassle, often more than that, and if this is going to work, he's going to have to give this manchild his full attention.

When he comes back for the first time after their initial meeting, a couple of days later, it's shortly after lunch, and the house is silent for the longest time. The maid lets him in at long last, and it turns out ' _mister Oakenshield is still asleep I think'._ Bilbo thanks her and occupies himself with trying to find Thorin's liquor cabinet. He discovers several, and  takes good note of the contents. He can always empty them later.

Thorin comes down later, fresh as a daisy, which translates to him pointedly ignoring Bilbo's presence until he suggests that a bottle of beer for breakfast isn't exactly suitable, upon which Thorin vigorously tells him to stuff it.

The next day, Bilbo replaces all of his beer bottles in the fridge with groceries.

The day after that, he's locked out of the house.

He arrives especially early the next day with a locksmith, and leaves the new keys on the kitchen counter for Thorin to find later. Some beers have returned to the fridge, but he's pleased to discover that some of the food is obviously getting eaten as well. He makes himself eggs on toast and leaves.

_ You're fired,  _ Thorin texts him later that day, presumably having discovered the keys.

_ Can't fire me. See you tomorrow,  _ Bilbo responds.

The next day, he discovers that if he follows Thorin around long enough and talks swiftly enough, he can piss him off enough so that he agrees to a whole bunch of things before he escapes to the bathroom to avoid Bilbo for a good hour.

“You're not my damn sober companion,” Thorin growls at him, not for the first time and certainly not for the last, as Bilbo watches him spike his coffee with evident disapproval.

“Implying you need one.”

“Shut up. What do you want this time?”

“For you to play with some other people. Come down to the city, to the studio, and-”

“Hell no.”

“Why not?” Bilbo sighs, peeling himself off the kitchen counter to follow Thorin wherever he decides to trail off.

“Not gonna play with anybody else.”

“Oh, right. Good. An excellent idea. People will pay billions to see you on stage completely alone. Come on, you're going to need to start doing actual music some day soon if you actually want this.”

“I had a band.”

“Yeah, and now they all hate you. Good going. You need a new band.”

“I don't want a new band.”

“You need _some_ band. Someone who will be willing to stay in the same room with you for the duration of at least one song, hard as those people might be to come by.”

“Fuck off.”

All in all, they're making progress.

 

Bilbo travels to see Dwalin McFundin the day after that at Gandalf's suggestion, without telling Thorin, and an idea worms its way into his head somewhere along the way.

_ Have you finally quit?,  _ Thorin texts him just as him and Dwalin are talking about growing tomatoes or some such thing Bilbo would never expect to talk about with a massive inked bald  Scottish  drummer of all people.

_ You should be so lucky,  _ Bilbo types while Dwalin gets him more juice, and thinks,  _ progress. Definitely progress. _

 

He drives up to the mansion to tell his assigned manchild about the good news soon after that – well, tell him in a way. He's more than adept at fending off his anger and incessant complaining, but reunions are a thing that must be handled delicately.

“You're getting up off your arse if I have to kick you all the way down to the studio!”

_ Delicately _ can mean a whole wide range of things, of course.

“I don't need his bullshit!”

“Yes, you do, in fact, need this bullshit,” Bilbo presses on, struggling to keep up with Thorin as he marches up the stairs to the second floor, where Bilbo himself has never been before, but that doesn't stop him.

“Even though you might not notice it, we are all working on a _schedule_ here, and all that is required from you is _cooperation._ Literally everything else will be done _for_ you. So if you could just _suck it up_ and come to the damn studio with me on Monday. I'll drive you.”

Thorin glares, leaning against the frame of the door leading to what Bilbo supposes is his bedroom, and it's somewhat unsettling – yelling, he can withstand and react to accordingly. Quiet staring, not so much.

“I'll think about it,” Thorin utters at long last, and disappears, the door slamming in Bilbo's face.

But if Thorin thinks he'll get rid of him that easily, by – yes, there's the sound of water running – by spending an hour in a shower again, then he's sorely mistaken. Waiting is a part of Bilbo's job too.

He makes himself tea, eats some of the apples Thorin hasn't touched, and finally, after some time just dreamily looking outside , he dares venture into the garden. 

He ends up spend ing a good hour thinking about how horrified his mother would be upon seeing this mess, even entertaining himself with a couple of ideas about changing things here and there, planting anew, those roses there could use trimming, those flowerbeds would look  _ so much better  _ with just a little bit of weeding... He stops himself in time before he actually gets to his knees, and when he comes back inside the house, he hears the faint strumming of a guitar.

He has by no means discovered the entirety of the unnecessarily massive building, and so he can only hope to find where the music is coming from – he happens upon Thorin one of the side rooms downstairs, turned into what could be a nice rehearsal room if there w as more than one person to make music there. A bunch of old equipment lies unused under sheets, microphone stands and amplifiers and loud-speakers and countless wires, even an old drum set, all set aside, unused and forgotten, a sad unkempt maze much like the garden outside. At least a dozen guitars stand lined neatly by the far wall, bass and acoustic and electric of course, and one of them is currently missing from its spot, nursed in Thorin's lap.

The man is sitting in front of yet another one of those tall ceiling-to-floor arched windows that appear throughout the house, with his back turned to the door and thus Bilbo, wearing nothing but his boxers, hunched over,  his damp mane cascading off his shoulders down his back in long tendrils. There's a tattoo spread wide across his shoulder blades, an almost tribal depiction of some sort of bird of prey, or a raven or some such thing, Bilbo can't tell, but the sight mesmerizes him nevertheless.

He doesn't recognize the melody, and it's too quiet to make anything of it really – just idle strumming, somewhat somber chords repeating and not really heading anywhere, but it is masterful nevertheless,  and a smile spreads over Bilbo's face.

Thorin might be an unbearable prick ninety nine percent of the time, but two things are obvious – he's clearly lonely, and even more clearly still capable of handling his instruments. Bilbo can work with both of those things.

Right when Thorin starts humming along to his made-up song, Bilbo's phone vibrates in his pocket, effectively ruining the moment, making the musician tense up and groan when he turns to see.

“You're still here,” he comments.

“Yep. It's good to see you can, after all, still play. Certainly makes _my_ job easier.”

“It's not something you can forget,” Thorin supplies dryly, getting up to his feet – it's really a sight to witness, all that bare skin and, well, hair. Bilbo scolds himself mentally when he realizes he might be staring a bit too intensely.

“We'll see about that,” he quips, “how's your voice?”

“Fine,” Thorin grunts, putting the guitar back in its place, Bilbo clearly having disrupted his peace too early.

“Really. So the incessant drinking and smoking has in fact been _improving_ your vocal cords.”

“That's for me to worry about.”

“No, it is actually for _me_ to worry about as well,” Bilbo reminds him, standing his ground even faced with Thorin coming up to stand inches away from him in the doorway, still stubbornly shirtless, “do you really think you're at the top of your game after all these years of hiding away and doing nothing?”

“Why don't you worry about getting me back on a stage, and let me worry about doing my job when I get there,” Thorin utters, glaring, obviously taunting.

“Oh, suddenly we're all inclined to get back on a stage,” Bilbo retorts easily, quirking an eyebrow, doing a very good job of distracting himself from Thorin's bare pectorals directly in his line of sight were he to stray but a little bit from his eyes – dear _god_ the man is shameless.

“Never said I wasn't.”

“Well, good to know you're _willing._ But I'm not letting you perform anywhere near an actual stage until you manage to convince me that you still can.”

“I'm _fine._ ”

“Oh yeah? Prove it. Come down to the studio on Monday.”

What  _is_ that soap? Bilbo is dead certain he recognizes the scent, and... yeah, smelling your client's freshly washed body, even by proximity's fault alone, never a good idea. And Thorin  _won't stop glaring at him._ Bilbo ponders his options, wonders if he should tell Thorin now that Dwalin will be waiting to see him in that studio, wonders if Thorin even has any normal clothes he can put on for such an occasion, wonders if he still has those old posters of him somewhere at home, maybe he could dig them up and... No no, wrong things to be thinking about right now.

“You just gonna stand there? I said alright,” Thorin grumbles impatiently, and Bilbo feels an inexplicable blush in his cheeks, one that he swiftly chases away.

“Alright?” he repeats somewhat dumbly, “you're coming, then.”

“Yeah, yes, Jesus, I'm coming,” Thorin rolls his eyes, him and all his muscle brushing past Bilbo without much consideration, “but don't you think I'm letting you drive me around town in that tin can of yours.”

“You don't have a car,” Bilbo reminds him pointedly.

“Neither do you.”

“I do, in fact-”

“Have something that no self-respecting person would call an actual car.”  
“Oh, ha ha. If I don't drive you, what guarantee do I have that you'll actually show up?”

“I guess you're just going to have to trust me, aren't you,” Thorin flashes him a grin over his shoulder before leaving him standing below the stairs and disappearing yet again.

 

Bilbo decides to give him the benefit of the doubt – which in his case means knowing perfectly well that Thorin has no intention whatsoever of showing up, and coming up with a back-up plan all nice and ready to go. Oh no, won't be getting rid of him that easily.

-

 

God, people are so easy to fool these days. Thorin would almost feel sorry for his newest charming PR manager, if he in fact didn't spend every waking minute wishing the absolute worst to befall the man. How can so much annoying stubbornness be crammed into such a tiny human, Thorin will never know.  He's like a mosquito that keeps buzzing around your head and that you just want to squash for good. Thorin isn't sure what he's done to deserve this – him – but he's going to have to have a serious talk with Gandalf soon, if it persists.

He understands well enough the fact that he's signed a contract, and is thus obliged to let the man near – and  _cannot_ actually fire him – but that doesn't mean he can't make his job a living hell, hoping that he'll quit himself, eventually.

He's in the middle of scouring the confusing contents of his fridge – for some reason Bilbo thought it would be a good idea to fill it with... things, green things and _healthy_ things, as if tomatoes ever helped anyone get over a rough morning – when his phone rings, and Thorin grins wolfishly.

“Morning,” he says jovially, occupying himself with trying to find the bacon he's _certain_ Bilbo couldn't have thrown out, because that's just too cruel – it's like searching for a needle in a vegetable-based haystack.

“Morning?! It's _three PM!_ Where the hell are you?”

“At home, eating your tomatoes,” Thorin says lightly and innocently, “why? Oh, did I miss something?”

“Don't you play idiot with me! We had a deal! Monday, Gandalf's studio!”

“Oh, right, shit,” Thorin pretends to care, “sorry, forgot. I'll be there in... two hours?”

“You were supposed to be here _thirty minutes ago!_ ”

“Hmm,” Thorin considers it, “tough shit.”

He doesn't give Bilbo a second to complain further, simply hangs up with great satisfaction, and proceeds to wash down the aforementioned tomatoes with beer. All in all, a great success.

Bilbo calls twice more, and Thorin ignores him – he knows he's going to have to start cooperating eventually, but for now, there's time, mostly to see how long Bilbo will last. He gives him one more week, and wishes he had someone to make the bet with.

 

Spending the rest of the afternoon in front of the TV sounds like a good idea – he doesn't even hear the front door unlocking until it's too late, until he has absolutely no time to flee and hide.

“I'm sure he's pretending to sleep or something,” Bilbo calls, dangerously nearby, “go surprise him in the shower if you want – oh. There you are.”

He smiles almost kindly, and Thorin has enough wherewithal about him to take that as a warning.

“I was just going to...” he starts.

“ _Of course_ you were,” Bilbo says sweetly, “did you think you were getting out of this that easily? Get up, I brought company.”

“What – what company?”

“Two can play at this game,” Bilbo informs him perfectly nicely, but still somehow succeeding at sending a chill creeping up Thorin's spine, “if you won't come to the studio, I'm bringing the studio with me.”

“Gandalf's here?” Thorin peeps – oh, this is going _swell._

“Among other people,” Bilbo grins, folding his arms in great satisfaction.

“What the hell do you mean _among other people_ -”

“Hey, you know, in my time, we used to escape through the patio and hide in the summer house, so maybe he's there – oh. Hey.”

Thorin thinks he might be seeing things. His stomach does an uncomfortable little backflip, and he scrambles to his feet, wanting to get away or closer, he's not sure. Dwalin is like a very weird mirage, looking absolutely  _ancient_ without his mohawk and  with  just a short beard left, but the amusement in his eyes is hauntingly familiar – Thorin is going to be sick.

“What the fuck are you doing here?” he croaks, his voice betraying him utterly and completely.

“Came to see if the stories were true,” Dwalin shrugs, “and lo and behold, you _do_ look like absolute shit.”

A snort comes from Bilbo, but before Thorin can shoot him even the shortest stink-eye, Dwalin crosses the distance between them and envelops him in a rib-crushing hug, quite literally shaking him until Thorin's feet are  all but dangling off the ground.

“Alright, Jesus... _cut it out!_ ”

“It's good to see you,” Dwalin tells him a bit too earnestly for his liking, and Thorin manages a somewhat weak: “Yeah, it's... weird to see _you_.”

“Oh, so we're all reunited, wonderful.”

That's Gandalf, sauntering into the living room, just as pleased with the situation as Bilbo is.

“Why the hell are you here?” Thorin asks Dwalin rather grumpily, “what did they tell you? And were you two planning this all along?”

Gandalf merely winks at him, while Bilbo supplies: “I gave you a chance to do this on neutral grounds.”

“Well, I didn't exactly know I'd be doing _this,_ did I,” Thorin groans, gesturing to the entirety of Dwalin, who for his part still looks like this is the most enjoyable thing that has happened to him today, just to piss Thorin off, of course.

“Why don't you two get reacquainted,” Gandalf suggests, “I'll go see how the rehearsal room's looking after all this time.”

“You're playing today, whether you like it or not,” Bilbo tells Thorin, but before he can launch himself at him and throttle him, the two disappear, leaving him alone with Dwalin and a whole lot of unprecedented confusion.

“Cute bunny rabbit Gandalf has set you up with,” Dwalin teases him.

“Oh, he's _vile,_ ” Thorin growls, “absolutely vile.”

“The adorable ones always are. Thought you would have learned by now,” Dwalin grins.

“I need a smoke,” Thorin whines.

 

It's all very unfair, all things considered. They used to be twenty five and sit on the back porch exactly like this, lighting each other's cigs and complaining, and it used to be easy, and it used to feel normal. This is... stilted, and uncomfortable, and Thorin half wishes he were anywhere but here right now. The other half of him is starting to seriously doubt the credibility of his decision to do this at all.

“I didn't actually _sign_ anything, not like you did,” Dwalin jabs at him after he asks what the hell he's doing here in the first place, “ but that PR of yours has a way with words. Told him there's no band to rebuild, he's pretty adamant he can build you a new one.”

“Told him I don't want a band,” Thorin grumbles, watching the overgrown bushes swaying in the breeze – when did it become spring again?

“Can't do this alone, Thorin,” Dwalin reminds him almost gently, “and you don't have to.”

“Oh yeah? Who's going to play with me, then? Dain, after he leaves his busty American wife and kids and record deal? Bifur, when he's not eating with a straw? You?!”

“Settle down,” Dwalin rumbles, “you're not alone in this, you prick. Do you think I rode all the way over here on a fucking train just to see how you're doing?”

“Really. You're willing to play with me. When was the last time you drummed?”

“Last week, a two-hour show. When was the last time _you_ sang, huh?  Don't be an asshole.”

Thorin feels bile rising in his throat, and so he wisely decides to shut up for once, dragging the smoke deep in to beat the foul taste. The wind picks up, making the leaves of the old oaks murmur and sing their own melodies, and he doesn't have it in him to look Dwalin in the eye for the longest time.

“You rode a train?” he asks at long last, “what happened to the bike? Don't tell me something happened to the fucking bike.”

“The bike's fine, idiot. Didn't want to taunt you with it.”

“ _Taunt me_ with it,” Thorin snorts, “what the fuck did you think I would do?”

“Well, there's very few stupid things you _haven't done_ over the years,” Dwalin says simply.

Thorin punches him in the arm.

He feels twenty five again, for about three seconds. It's not a bad feeling.

 

Jamming with him later, though, that _is_ a bad feeling. The old drum set Thorin's had in storage for years barely lives up to Dwalin's standards, but he gives it a go nevertheless, much to Gandalf's delight. Bilbo just watches, expression as impenetrable as ever (Thorin is quickly learning that that amiable smile is actually just a meticulously crafted mask that hides whatever Bilbo is currently thinking, and he thinks he's going to have to start being careful around it, and soon), and they're obviously all waiting for him.

He tunes up one of his oldest Stratocasters much longer than is entirely necessary, more reluctant by the minute to actually do this.

“Come on,” Dwalin prods, beaming at him like they actually are twenty years younger, supplying him with a steady rhythm which pretty much any song could be built around, but it's obvious which one he's aiming for – they've about four or five they could probably play by memory another twenty years from now on their deathbeds, and only one of them easy enough so that Thorin doesn't have to concentrate too hard on not messing up.

“Fine, god,” Thorin sighs.

He spares one last look a t Bilbo, who merely quirks his damn eyebrow at him in silent expectation, and  strikes the first chord.

-

 

“Well, now you see what I have to deal with.”

“Now _you_ see what I've been dealing with for the past thirty years,” Gandalf is quick to reply, and Bilbo sighs.

They've both wisely retreated, giving the remnants of  _Durin's Bane_ enough room to... well, judging by the muffled arguing still audible halfway across the house, bury the band for good.

“Don't lose hope,” Gandalf tells Bilbo, “they'll come around.”

“If they don't kill each other first.”

“They haven't seen each other in a very long time. I'm surprised they're so civil.”

The sharp sound of a slammed door is the full stop behind that sentence, and Bilbo shakes his head.

“How about we put those groceries you've bought to good use and make ourselves some dinner,” Gandalf suggests, and Bilbo just decides to go with it – cooking is calming, and he's reached his brim for dealing with Thorin today.

Dwalin reappears shortly, one drumstick behind his ear, twirling the other one in his fingers, and he looks surprisingly unscathed, and in good spirits.

“Progress,” he describes the past hour somewhat inaccurately, and Bilbo can't but ask: “Really? He couldn't even finish one song without complaining.”

“There was a time when he refused to touch a guitar at all,” Gandalf supplies, and Dwalin nods sagely.

“You know, I didn't believe you for a second when you told me you could get him back out there. But hey, with a bit of whipping, he'll be fine.”

“I might actually buy a real whip, soon,” Bilbo grumbles.

“Kinky,” Dwalin laughs, and Bilbo receives a hefty slap on the back, followed by a highly lewd, “he'd like that. No, but honestly, keep at it.”

_Keep at it._ Bilbo has always considered optimism to be his default setting when it comes to his work, but god, the man has... he's ridiculously rusty. They did manage to find some sort of rhythm with Dwalin at one point, but there was much more complaining and arguing about keys and notes involved for any actual music to come out of it. Not to mention Thorin's outright refusal to sing, god knows why. Perhaps he just didn't want to prove Bilbo right in his assumptions about his utterly ruined voice. 

Dwalin on the other hand sang gladly and loudly, no matter how off-key,  but  even that  didn't piss off Thorin enough to join him.  Bilbo's going to have to find some way to  _make him_ , and soon.

But for now, he's content to just listen. Dwalin and Gandalf launch into a discussion about the good old days in general, and it is somehow calming to listen to that – Dwalin has been keeping tabs on the rest of the band and brings Gandalf up to speed, and Gandalf in turn has some news of his own, and they manage to cover about a decade of two of the country's musical history amidst making themselves hefty portions of sandwiches.

Like a sulky bear attracted by the smell of sizzling bacon, Thorin reappears at one point, mute once again, his guitar slung over his shoulder still for some reason, and he hovers over Bilbo as he prepares more food, snatching one of his neatly cut sandwiches away the second it is finished and retreating to the living room to sulk some more, his response to Bilbo's prickly 'You're welcome!' a raised middle finger.

“Progress,” Bilbo says sardonically, and Dwalin huffs a laugh before winking at him and moving on to bother Thorin further – of the belief that he knows best how much Thorin can take, Bilbo follows him, as does Gandalf.

“Heard from Dís?” Dwalin asks the uncooperative lump on the sofa with crumbles of sandwich in his mustache that is Thorin, and it utters something incomprehensible and unhappy.

_Sister,_ the professional part of Bilbo's brain fishes out of the background knowledge about Thorin he's been storing in it over time.

“The kids are alright, yeah? How old are they now?”

“Kili's nineteen. Fili's twenty... something,” Thorin utters, munching on his sandwich in a somewhat brooding manner, casting the three of them highly dissatisfied looks, like a large tomcat whose slumber has been interrupted.

“Nice. Man, I miss your sister.”

“Don't you fucking start,” Thorin growls, and Dwalin giggles, waggling his eyebrows at him.

“I hope for her sake she ages better than you.”

“I _will_ punch you in the throat.”

“Oh, like you could land a proper hit.”

“Don't test me.”

And so on, and so forth. Eventually, Dwalin starts drumming out an idle rhythm on the coffee table, and the armrest of the sofa, and the nearest plate, and much to Bilbo's surprise, Thorin joins him on his guitar, finding the fitting chords somewhat laboriously at first, but finding them nevertheless.  Gandalf leans back in his armchair with great satisfaction, and Bilbo doesn't say a peep, too worried the moment is just as fragile as he's imagining, just as prone to breaking.

Still no singing, but progress? Oh yes.

It might last an hour or three minutes, Bilbo finds it impossible to keep count. He's far too preoccupied with watching Thorin, his fingers dancing across the fretboard with a passion and a growing ease, his eyes closed one second, confirming the rhythm with Dwalin the next; his forearms flexing, simply because they're very nice to look at, and the unlikely serenity of his expression, one that Bilbo is entirely unfamiliar with. He thinks of him sitting entirely alone in this huge house the other day, and wishes he could have seen his face then. Wishes... well, wishes to see what his face might look like on an actual stage, after all this time.

He's watched quite a few of the band's earliest performances, the ones he could get his hands on that is, grainy and shaky when they were still but starting out, then moving onto their first big gigs, that one open-air festival concert at the break of the millennium, that was quite something, with some four thousand people in the audience... The thing is, Thorin has always had this incredible charisma about him, piercing eyes and hair flips and movements like a prowling panther, no wonder fangirls would squeal over him...

But that's all gone now. Well, not for good, Bilbo knows it's all buried in there somewhere, but he just hasn't yet found a way to bring it back out onto the surface. He's not even sure Thorin himself knows how, or that he particularly wants to. What Thorin  _wants_ in general, is a great big enigma still.

“He can't do this alone,” he tells Dwalin, mostly to confirm his speculations, when they're about to leave, waiting for Thorin to, miraculously enough, get dressed and go downtown with them for a beer before Dwalin has to catch a train.

“Yeah, I know,” the drummer mutters, hands shoved in his pockets, inspecting the photographs on the wall below the main staircase with evident nostalgia.

“I'm going to build him a band one way or the other,” Bilbo supplies, “and I'd prefer it if you were in it.”

Dwalin turns to him, his look almost scrutinizing, and then he sighs, a long-suffering sigh of someone coming to terms with their destiny, probably.

“Yeah. I think I'd prefer that too.”

“Really? Oh, that's great,” Bilbo smiles earnestly, but Dwalin waves him off.

“One nice enough afternoon doesn't make me want to be best pals with him again all of a sudden, alright,” he says gruffly, “you might find yourself stopping me from punching him in the foreseeable future.”

Bilbo grins.

“What makes you think I'd try to stop you?”

Dwalin barks out a laugh, which is very obviously an agreement at the same time.

“Alright then. Now, about that band rebuilding – I have some ideas.”

“You do?! Do tell!”

“Yeah. Thorin's not going to like it, though. Might be stopping _him_ from punching _me_ if it works out.”

Bilbo's grin broadens into something positively devilish, having finally found an accomplice in his... plight, for the lack of a better word.

“Oh, bring it on.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here we go! Yet again feeling good about making these chapters shorter, and revealing backstory only slowly. The cruder the words I let Thorin use, the more fun his dynamic with everyone is to write, apparently. Hope you enjoyed! :)


	3. Grasp And Keep

“You have got to be _fucking joking._ ”

“Nice to see you too, Uncle!”

“Hey, no no _no,_ don't you just invite yourselves inside. I did _not_ agree to this. _Don't_ touch that! Take your fucking shoes off, Kili! I'm going to _murder you._ ”

That last sentence is purely for Bilbo, who simply winks at Thorin, accompanied by a mocking grin and a thumbs-up, and Dwalin by his side snorts. Thorin lets out a desperate groan and follows the whirlwind that are his nephews into the house, a string of swears his trusty companion.

“An excellent idea,” Bilbo smiles at Dwalin.

“ _I'm going to slap you so hard you see tomorrow if you touch that!_ ”

“Thank you, I think so too,” the drummer smiles beatifically, and they reach a unanimous decision to follow the path of mayhem before any slapping occurs.

All in all, yes, springing decisions on Thorin out of the blue happens to be the best course of action any given day, Bilbo has swiftly learned. He himself was doubtful at first when Dwalin suggested introducing his nephews into the picture, age difference and the potential image of the band and all, but the truth is... Well, the truth is there really is no one else willing to even attempt to play with Thorin, not without atrocious amounts of money involved anyway, and besides, Bilbo needs more than that, more than hired instruments. He needs _chemistry,_ something to make the band click and sell, look good on stage, just _work_ in every aspect of the word, not only reproduce their old songs with mechanical precision. Mechanical precision doesn't sell in their particular line of work.

What _does_ sell is energy, and pretty faces, and solid music, and Thorin's nephews provide all of that in spades.

They'd driven, Dwalin and him, to see them the other day at some gig in the city, one of those eclectic pubs their generation favors so much these days, dim and crowded and smelling faintly of substances of which weed is the least exotic one. And saw them play. And Bilbo fell in love. Which did nothing for his doubt, of course – Kili was still only nineteen, and there was no guarantee either of them would even want to give _Durin's Bane_ a shot, really.

No matter how good they were. And boy, were they _excellent._ Different as night and day, but somehow working together seamlessly, the older Fili with his sunshiny but solemn facade and a beautiful voice, which, alongside his keyboard, was an utterly flawless harmony to Kili's joyfully frantic guitar strumming. The younger one looked just like his Uncle when younger, eerily so, and they both laughed and laughed _and laughed_ when Dwalin and Bilbo explained why they were there, but agreed easily enough to go see how their Uncle was doing, at least.

A little later on, Bilbo got a very stern call from a very stern Dís, their mother and Thorin's sister, but as soon as he explained that absolutely nothing was set in stone yet, and that yes, he was going to make sure that her sons walked out of the meeting unscathed, she turned a page and told him what Bilbo suspected might have been a compliment, _my brother might be an idiot and a raging alcoholic, but he does deserve a second chance at... something, and if you're stupid enough to try and give him that, then you have my full support._

Nice, in that crude, disconcerting way that Bilbo thinks runs in the family.

 

And so here they are – the boys were almost as excited as Dwalin about appearing on Thorin's doorstep entirely unannounced, and Gandalf endorsed the idea as well, _good luck – you're going to need it,_ and all in all, Bilbo thinks he just might be able to do this.

“ _Don't you dare touch my beer, you are nineteen fucking years old!_ ”

With some careful diplomacy, that is.

“Oh, you remembered my age, I'm touched,” Kili sings right about when Bilbo and Dwalin reach the kitchen, and Thorin fumes, having snatched the bottle from his hand and now guarding the fridge like a very disgruntled dragon its hoard, and Fili looks on with a hint of distant amusement, calm as ever, so very unlike his brother and Uncle both.

“How's your Mum?” Dwalin asks him, purposefully oblivious to Thorin's grumbling, alongside everyone else in the room, confirming to Bilbo that it really is the best way of dealing with his tantrums.

“Oh, awesome, yeah. Sends _you_ ,” Fili points with his fortunately legal bottle to Thorin, “a slap.”

Kili giggles, and Thorin glowers.

“I'll keep it,” Fili decides wisely and solemnly.

“Well, this is nice,” Dwalin grins broadly, winking at Kili, who sniggers, sticks out his tongue and gives him a thumbs-up as well.

“I don't understand this,” Thorin says menacingly, coming up to stand all but nose to nose (well, chest to nose, the height difference is remarkable, Bilbo is reminded for the umpteenth time) with Bilbo, glaring down at him, “explain this to me. What are they doing here. You can't be thinking what I think you're thinking. _Tell me_ you're not thinking what I think you're thinking.”

Bilbo crosses his arms over his chest and glares right back, unimpressed.

“And what exactly do you think it is that I'm thinking?”

“You're thinking... Look, I can't rebuild the band with these two!”

“And why not?” Bilbo inclines his head, echoed by Kili's much more demanding: “Yeah, why not?”

“Because you're... Because they're... I mean, it's ridiculous that you would...” Thorin blabs, turning furiously from the boys to Bilbo.

“Oh yes, now that you put it so clearly, I can't help but agree wholeheartedly,” Bilbo says sardonically.

“This wouldn't work!” Thorin exclaims, “ever! Look at them!”

“Won't know until you try it,” Bilbo presses on dryly.

“They're _kids!_ ”

“And you're a manchild, you'll have a lot to talk about. You _are_ playing with them today.”

“No, I'm not.”

“Yes, you are.”

“You can't tell me what to do.”

“Yes, I can, in fact, tell you what to do, and I'm telling you you're _going to play with them today._ ”

“I like him,” Kili decides on Bilbo, elbowing his brother in the side, and Fili nods solemnly, both of them wiggling their eyebrows at Bilbo in perfect unison when he spares a look their way. For his part, Thorin looks dangerously like he might burst any second now, like the grumpily hissing steampot he resembles, and it takes one look exchanged with Dwalin for Bilbo to devise a plan that has worked many times before – leave him be, and let him come to them when he feels like it. Honestly, a hormonal teenager would be easier work.

“Where the hell do you think you're going?!” Thorin calls after them as they collectively leave him behind, “don't touch any of my instruments!”

“Eww, no, we brought our own!” Kili responds loudly and cheerfully, dodging Dwalin's half-hearted slap easily enough.

“I swear to god, this place hasn't changed a bit in all these years,” Fili says thoughtfully, inspecting everything as Bilbo and Dwalin lead them to where the instruments in fact are.

“We used to come here as kids,” Kili explains further, both brothers towering a good head above Bilbo as they walk side by side with him, yet another infuriating family trait, “back when Gramps and Gammie were still alive. Good times.”

Bilbo searches for something, some hint of the same emotion that ruined Thorin when his father died, but to no avail. They're younger, healthier, clearly unaffected – exactly what Bilbo, and Thorin himself even though he does not realize it yet, needs.

“Wait, so all those parties in the photographs...” he notes.

“Oh, well, our Grandma was a saint,” Fili says, “baked cookies for all those stoners, and cleaned up after them in the morning, or so we hear. Granddad was a rocker himself, so she knew how to put up with it all.”

“Man, those nights must have been legendary,” Kili sighs dreamily.

“Uh-huh,” Dwalin snorts, “if by legendary you mean potentially lethal. You whelps wouldn't have lasted two hours.”

“Oh blah blah, you youngsters can't hold yer liquor,” Kili imitates his accent as well as his rugged voice, and this time the slap doesn't miss, and he yelps and giggles, trotting a few steps ahead, out of the drummer's reach.

“It's true! I'll drink you under the table in twenty minutes!”

“That a challenge?”

“Please don't,” Fili rolls his eyes, and Bilbo can only smile as he hurries after them – this connection, this familiarity, isn't something he could ever replicate with hired people, and if this works, it might grow into something really fantastic. _If_ it works.

“I'll be,” Fili exhales – they've reached the makeshift rehearsal room, and four people are almost too much for it, what with the drum set that Dwalin has dragged out into a proper place and started tweaking the other day, and all the note stands set up with one clear purpose – to taunt Thorin into getting pissed off enough and play something off the sheets.

“Very sixties basement culture,” Fili remarks, and Kili inspects the old fraying posters on the walls, scrunching his face in concentration and subsequently jumping away under an adorably childish pretense of innocence when he tries to peel the edge of one of them off, and gets a bit of the wall with it.

“It's not the best,” Bilbo admits, “but at least we can actually force Thorin to play here. Haven't dared take him to an actual studio just yet.”

“The walls look like they're gonna come down if we crank it up too much,” Kili says, not without curiosity.

“Let's give it a shot, then,” Dwalin grins wolfishly.

-

 

_What have I done to deserve this_ isn't really a good question to ask in this case – he's done more than enough to deserve this, and it's probably just the universe finally deciding it's time for penance, and sending it in the form of an inhumanly annoying excuse for a PR manager. Whose gall, it turns out, goes as far as bring ing Thorin's _family_ into his house, without a word of prior warning, without _anything._

As they run off to decimate some distant part of his home, Thorin retires upstairs to shamelessly hide in his bedroom, lay on his bed, smoke with great vigor even though he'd promised Bilbo he wouldn't do it inside, and try and devise the best way of getting rid of him for good, hopefully one that would not include going to jail for murder.

He considers calling Dís, but then the last time they talked, she practically disowned him, so it might be for the best to just... not do that. How did she agree to this in the first place? Surely they can't just... _Bilbo_ can't just expect her to let Kili play with them. He's just a kid, and an annoying one at that. Hey, him and Bilbo will get along just swell, won't they.

It's all his fault, after all, him and his _charm_ and his _way with words,_ talking even Dwalin out of his slumber up north and into spending more than five seconds in the same room with Thorin. He can't say he's not glad to see him, but he _can_ keep it to himself.

The first cannonball drum solo almost causes him a heart attack – it's followed by very distant laughter, Kili shouting something at the top of his lungs, and then the sound of a guitar joining in, and a keyboard, probably, obviously Fili's... They come to halt and start over, time and time again, playing around with melodies and trying stuff out, and it takes Thorin a while to realize that he's been staring at the ceiling with unseeing eyes, fingers rapping on the mattress in a corresponding rhythm.

“Oh, for fuck's sakes,” he groans when an entirely too familiar melody emerges, and rolls off the bed, anger rising.

If they – if _Bilbo_ – expects him to just go down there and join them, just because they're missing those crucial riffs and someone to sing, then he's sadly mistaken... Fili's voice joins the music then, effortless and loud even though they're hardly equipped with anything even resembling good microphones or wiring in general, and it tugs at something right in the middle of Thorin's chest, something inconveniently painful.

He freezes for a moment, then proceeds to pace the room, but the only decision he reaches is that he needs another cigarette. Lighting it with fumbling hands, he stomps down the stairs, but no, the music is louder here, and he does _not_ want to listen to this right now, or ever, go away, go away...

He hovers at the foot of the staircase, listening and all but chewing his cigarette into pulp, but then he shakes his head vigorously, leaving behind only an angry puff of smoke as he marches outside through the back porch.

There, that's better, definitely quieter here, thank god. It's not quite warm enough yet for just his old frayed t-shirt, but he doesn't care one single bit, simply walks farther off into the garden, something he hasn't done in.. how long? Years, yes, but the exact number escapes him.

He is in the process of staring down one of the bushes that has now almost overgrown and swallowed whole the small blue bench (and didn't it used to be barely taller than it? Oh well) when he suffers another shock, his pocket buzzing, when he's absolutely certain he left his phone inside at some point...

“Ugh,” he greets after briefly considering the option of throwing the phone into the unkempt greenery and never seeing it ever again.

“My sentiments exactly,” his sister utters.

“What do you want?”

“What do you think? Are my sons still alive?”

“Not for much longer,” Thorin grumbles, his feet carrying him back to the house and around it, to sneak a peek into the rehearsal room, entirely inconspicuously if at all possible.

“Right, I see. For the record, I think it's a ridiculous idea.”

“Yeah, well, that makes the two of us,” Thorin hisses, figuring out a path that would allow him to sneak up to that side of the house without anyone spotting him, “can't you just, I don't know, tell them to be home by dinnertime or something?”

“How old do you think they are, exactly?” Dís scoffs.

“I don't know, but judging by the noise they're making I'd say twelve and still awful at harmonies.”

“Don't be a git, brother dear.”

“Shut up. I thought you of all people would not condone this. Kili's nineteen! What do you think is going to happen if you let him...”  
“Let him what? Beat his uncle to a ruined liver by a couple of years? I'm happy to announce that he's much smarter than you, Thorin.”

“Yeah, well,” Thorin says dumbly, ducking back behind a corner when he spots the bobbing brown mop of Bilbo's curls through the window turning in his direction.

“Look, I talked to that PR of yours,” Dís informs him, “charming guy. I don't know what he thinks he can wring out of you, to be honest, but he seems inclined to try. The kids were pretty excited when he called them up, so _be nice,_ or I'm coming up there myself, do you understand?”

“Empty threats,” Thorin scoffs.

“Perhaps. Willing to take the risk?”

“Oh, big talk. Leave me alone, will you?” he groans, pacing on the lawn directly in front of the window leading to the rehearsal room, no longer caring, flipping an automatic bird in response when they tap at the window for him to join them.

“Would that I could,” Dís sighs, “I was perfectly happy to leave you alone for _years,_ you know that. Looks like that's no longer an option, though. You _know_ the boys adore you.”

“Yeah,” he mumbles, catching Bilbo's gaze through the window and turning away, not in the least willing to give him the satisfaction of watching his face.

“Don't ruin that, at least.”

“Yeah...” Thorin sighs again, and is about to add more, but then the music from the inside swells again, unnaturally so, and he sees that Bilbo has opened the glass door, _so_ on purpose, _so_ doing this to spite him, _how dare they play that song._

Dís might be babbling on at the other end of the line, but Thorin barely listens, simply dismisses her with words he doesn't remember saying the next second, and glares.

Dwalin is grinning at him from his drums, and Kili is strumming his entirely impractical Stagg with childlike ease and joy, and Thorin has been holding his breath for some time when Fili finally opens his mouth and starts singing, but it's still like a punch in the gut.

His voice is so similar to Thorin's own it's almost offensive, and Kili and him wink at each other, and Dwalin seems entirely too pleased with himself, and Bilbo... is probably the one who _orchestrated this whole thing,_ making them play this damn song just to _entice_ Thorin (read: make him hate Bilbo's guts with even more passion), but Thorin doesn't see any of that.

No, for the tiniest flicker of a moment, he sees the kids when they were in fact still kids, Kili sitting on the carpet in the living room, one of Thorin's old guitars almost bigger than him, learning his first chords, and Fili having Thorin carry him around the house on his shoulders, making him stop by each photograph lining the big staircase and wanting to hear the story behind it... And the two of them running around the garden when it still resembled a garden, and climbing the trees, and Dís lounging in the grass with a magazine while their mother sat in her rocking chair on the porch and their father complained about this or that...

And in the right here and right now, they decide to butcher the damn song just to piss him off, speeding it up to a stupid folksy jingle and Fili purposefully bleating like an idiot instead of actually singing, but they're all snickering at each other, and the chorus is still there, still making Thorin's stomach do uncomfortable backflips, _in too deep, grasp and keep, grasp and keep..._

Dwalin tries to throw his drumstick up in the air to make it spin and misses catching it, fumbling for it like an idiot, throwing them off the loop even though Kili attempts to continue playing, but they're all laughing, and entirely out of nowhere a bark of laughter escapes Thorin as well, something swelling where his passion for his craft once was embedded in his heart, and he knows then – though he won't admit it for a while as is after all his tradition – exactly what he wants, and that it's right there in front of his eyes. God dammit.

-

 

It's a good song. Even though it's so sinfully old. Even though at least one of them was horribly stoned when they wrote it – or perhaps exactly because of that. It was one of their first and got tweaked and remastered and edited so many times at the beginning of their career, but somehow stuck with them throughout the years, simple and without any fancy bits and bops, just a good, honest melody and lyrics easy to remember. It first brought them success, and they all ended up hating it and never wanting to play it again, at one point or another, which is why it's perfect for... whatever this is. Whatever they're attempting to do.

The boys have it memorized, _have had_ it memorized ever since someone first let them touch a guitar, and so they roll with it entirely too easily, and it's like setting out a bowl of warm milk for a hungry cat – Thorin comes prowling, casting them all judgmental glares, but he actually shuts up when Bilbo tells him to for once, which is a small miracle on its own, and ends up making Kili exchange his guitar for a bass and sitting with them for a while, which in his world is as good as admitting defeat.

But he still lets Fili take care of the singing, and frankly, Dwalin is running out of ways to make him do that himself.

“No, yeah, I'm not letting him on stage as _the guitar guy,_ no way,” Bilbo says resolutely when he suggests letting Fili sing, well, all the time, “he knows that. He'll budge eventually.”

Dwalin simply gapes at him, humming the baseline of _Grasp and Keep_ as he tears the lettuce for the quick dinner, and wonders, not for the first time and not for the last, where the hell Gandalf found him and if it's only him, or if he really does have something menacing hiding behind that outwardly cheery exterior.

He's survived Thorin unscathed so far, hasn't he, that requires a certain level of... well, guts, and patience.

“But anyway, let's not waste any more time – what do you two think, are you up for this? If yes, I can schedule a first gig somewhere low profile, just to test you all out as a unit. Gandalf can provide us with the necessary equipment for now, but we're going to need people, and soon, if we're to actually go through with this...”

The kids exchange an amused look, and Dwalin nods to them with a small smile. They're all thinking the same – Bilbo talks at the speed of light, and acts at the speed of light, and it's a miracle that Thorin hasn't locked him in his broom closet yet, but somehow, it seems to be working.

For his part, Dwalin doesn't know if this will work at all, doesn't know if they have what it takes anymore to take an actual stage, let alone go on the tour Bilbo and Gandalf have been going on and on about and that seems to be the desired outcome of all this, but he does know one thing – he'd expected to feel bitter and stupid and all in all useless coming back here, but so far, Thorin has done nothing to make him want to punch his lights out, and teasing the shit out of him is just as much fun as he remembers.

He isn't necessarily convinced that the old flame is still there, strong enough to make them big one last time, but he's willing to give it a shot, which is more than he'd have said at any point in the past decade.

“People?” Thorin, having graced the lowly first floor with his presence, utters suspiciously, “there will be _people?_ More people? I don't want any more people.”

“Well, you are getting more people,” Bilbo says casually, entirely unperturbed by the fact that Thorin stands inches away from him, gazing from his hands preparing the sandwich to his face, back to his hands, clearly attempting to bug the hell out of him, clearly failing.

“What _for?_ ”

“Stuff,” Bilbo decides dryly, that and each following word accompanied by him slapping Thorin's hand away from the incomplete dinner, “backstage, photographers, drivers, _people._ ”

Thorin pouts and looks hurt, but Bilbo ignores him completely, moving around him to get more things from the fridge, chop more things, put more things together... it's almost mesmerizing to watch, the way he just _doesn't care_ , simply deciding that since Thorin has no intention of moving, he'll work with him as an obstacle that has to be moved around, the small space of the kitchen never allowing them to be too far apart...

Dwalin wants to check if the boys are seeing what he's seeing, but evidently they're having just as much fun as he is, watching the theatre unfold with raised eyebrows and amused grins.

“That's decided, then,” Bilbo cuts the last sandwich and triumphantly positions it at the top of the little pyramid on his plate, “you boys are in for the time being, we'll work out the details later.”

Thorin is about to say something, but he also attempts to reach for a sandwich at the same time, and so he only receives an elbow in the stomach and Bilbo elegantly sauntering away, and as they all follow him like obedient chickens their mother hen, Dwalin thinks that maybe, just maybe, _things_ will start happening now.

-

 

He likes it when things move forward, and fast – he's had to adjust his expectations something fierce, working with Thorin, but that doesn't mean he won't jump at the opportunity to drag him along when he lets his guard down for two seconds.

They end up having a particularly fruitful argument on that one fateful afternoon when Bilbo drives up to the house with a bunch of electricians and general-backstage-handling guys that Gandalf has lent him, to see about re-purposing that one unused sitting room into an actual studio, and Thorin just _flips._ Absolutely doesn't allow anyone to move a single piece of furniture around, and when Bilbo shouts him into submission, it has the entirely unexpected outcome of him resolutely declaring that he will have this done his way or no way at all, and making actual calls to actual acquaintances of his, apparently people who have worked with the band before, way back when.

Which is how Bilbo arrives to a house full of people on the weekend – Fili and Kili are there, of course, and Dwalin, but that's as far as Bilbo's knowledge goes.

He is introduced to the three Rea brothers who look anything like brothers, Dori, the eldest, a great deal older than the other two, apparently in charge of ' _the visual appeal, you know how it goes'_ , and a veteran of the most explosive years of _Durin's Bane's_ fame; and Ori, the youngest ( _actually_ the youngest of them all, at the age of eighteen), who reunites with Fili and Kili like the old childhood friends they are, and is apparently excellent at ' _all that graphic-y Photoshop shit_ ', in the words of the middle brother, Nori, an all-purpose tech guy who smokes like a chimney and is the only one to match and surpass Bilbo in speed of speech.

Then there are Bofur and Bombur, technicians and brothers as well, and more importantly, the nephews of Bifur, the original _Durin's Bane's_ bass player – Bilbo doesn't really understand how Thorin got a hold of them, or that they were willing to show up at all, given what had gone down with their Uncle all those years ago, but everybody's talking over one another, and his compartmentalized brain is working at full capacity to take everyone and everything in and make sure to steer everything in the right direction – which would be ignoring Thorin, who obviously hasn't thought this through and gets incredibly agitated and thus prissy surrounded by all these people, and proceeding with all but digging out the innards of the house, checking the wiring, moving all the equipment from one side of the building to another, ignoring Thorin some more, playing some music in the meantime...

Gandalf turns up at the height of it all, of course he does, and _Durin's Bane_ is reborn. Or, well, it is forced out of obscurity and rejuvenated on paper, nothing else, but it's something – suddenly, there are a bunch of new people invested in its survival, and Bilbo allows himself to hope that this might actually work out. Somehow. With _a lot_ of hard work, but it's nothing he hasn't done before.

But as much as he enjoys listening to decade-old stories of the incredible debaucheries that have happened under this roof, _manhandling Thorin_ is still point number one in his current work description, and that point is currently nowhere to be seen.

Everyone else is accounted for, so Bilbo guesses correctly that the man is hiding away somewhere, trying to grab some alone time – he's observed him long enough to learn that he's the type that requires that, time and space to decompress, and he's more than willing to give him it, but today, it's all about forcing him out of his shell, back into that showman mode that Bilbo knows is still hidden away somewhere in there.

Thorin is capable of commanding thousands of people by his voice and appearance alone, of exciting and entertaining crowds, and he needs to remember how to do that before Bilbo allows him to climb back on a stage, any stage.

 

He goes to knock on his bedroom door first, but finds it open and the room deserted – there aren't very many places he could be hiding still, what with the first floor occupied by everyone else, as is the back porch, Bilbo having forced people to please smoke outside. He wonders briefly if Thorin is pissed off enough to retreat to the garden, but then he hears him moving around ahead, in one of the rooms Bilbo himself has never been to, out of respect – the whole second floor is personal, and Thorin's bizarre need to _preserve something_ is even more obvious here. One doesn't have to be a genius to realize one of the rooms is his parents' old bedroom, and there obviously have to be the rooms of his siblings... Bilbo almost decides to turn around, but then the ancient floorboards creak under his step, and Thorin calls his name, and sounds a whole lot more tense than annoyed, really.

“It's me, yeah,” Bilbo responds, “you need to come downstairs.”

No response, and so he just sighs and follows the thin strip of light, past one closed door and into another, entering a room that's... well, creepy is a generalization. First and foremost, Thorin doesn't have a kid, unless Bilbo has been severely misled, and so this must be... Two tiny beds on each side of it, and old toys on the shelves, alongside colorful books and an old mobile turning gently in the far corner, the breeze making it move wafting inside through a glass door ajar, leading to a small balcony. The obvious explanation is this is where Fili and Kili used to stay when they were little, but Bilbo knows more and is perfectly capable of connecting the dots, _young_ _er brother, died barely past adolescence..._ A car accident, was it? Or motorcycle?

Thorin sits in the middle of it, smoking casually out of the open door, curtains with a cheery soccer-themed pattern fluttering by his sides, and for the first time, Bilbo has a tiny flicker of doubt about his abilities, about being capable of jolting this man out of whatever rut he's found himself in.

“Not going anywhere,” Thorin grumbles then, and Bilbo is reminded of another thing entirely, that when it comes down to it, he _is_ in fact handling a fifteen-year-old.

“You invited these people here yourself,” he reminds him, “I'm not gonna do your entertaining for you, I'm not your fifties housewife.”

Thorin laughs dryly and snorts something about frilly dresses, and Bilbo startles him by coming up behind him and kicking him lightly in the back.

“Come on. The kids and Dwalin are going to play again.”

“Nah.”

“Gandalf wants to talk to you too.”

“Oh, well _that_ makes me want to go down there _right now,_ yeah.”

“Hmm. Seems that there's no convincing you,” Bilbo sighs theatrically, “I guess I'm just going to take Dwalin and see about playing everyone some of your records, since you won't entertain them yourself.”

Thorin tenses up almost imperceptibly, but it's there.

“You wouldn't dare.”

“You don't know me very well,” Bilbo notes, repeatedly gently kicking Thorin's back with the tip of his shoe until he turns around halfway and swats at him like an annoying fly.

“And vice versa,” Thorin growls, getting up at last, towering over Bilbo, “you don't know that I'll actually be willing to murder you if you touch my records.”

“Oh, I'm counting on you to try,” Bilbo smiles at him beatifically, and Thorin merely grunts and turns away from him dramatically to go finish his smoke on the teeny balcony.

It doesn't take much effort on Bilbo's part to invade his personal space, snatch the cigarette out of his mouth and flick it away into the night, subsequently dodging the half-hearted blow aimed for the general vicinity of his head.

“I hate you,” the manchild grumbles.

“I'm aware.”

“Make them leave.”

“They're not leaving until you behave yourself. In fact, I'm pretty sure some of them are willing to sleep over.”

“Fucking hell.”

It's funny, Bilbo thinks, slapping Thorin's hand when he moves to light another cigarette – this is normal conversation for them. Vulgarisms and light insults, but effortless. Thorin doesn't say any more – won't let Bilbo win that easily and quickly and agree to go downstairs just yet, so he just leans on the railing, a big grumpy mountain, and glares ahead, doing a very good job of ignoring Bilbo trying to annoy him further and staring at him, until he makes the foolish mistake of trying to elbow him in the ribs and Thorin defends himself with surprising speed, grabbing at his wrist and making him yelp.

“I swear to fucking god,” he snarls, but there's hardly any venom in it, really – if it weren't Thorin in fact, Bilbo suspects he'd be grinning right about now. _Progress._ Oh, and also Thorin gripping his wrist still, though softly, and glaring into his eyes as if he's looking for something in them. Bilbo inclines his head, and Thorin narrows his eyes. Bilbo sticks out his tongue at him, and Thorin's eyes widen, but then he sighs heavily and lets go of his hand, getting adorably fussy and pissed off when instead of retracting it, Bilbo reaches out to pat his cheek playfully, dancing away when Thorin makes a grab at him.

“Come on,” he says lightly, leaving inspecting that feeling of something tiny and warm blossoming somewhere in a long-unused part of his heart until later, and he knows without fail that Thorin will follow.

-

 

They appear side by side, though Thorin wants to look anything but like he's following Bilbo, and maintains an air of detached grump while Bilbo seems very pleased with himself – Dwalin makes a mental note to tease one or both of them about disappearing together later, and simply nods at the boys, and they resume their jamming, having stopped some of the residual moving halfway and thus having transformed the living room into a sort of nest of boxes and sheets, and most importantly, a bunch of guitars, and one of the older basses Kili has started tuning up again, Fili taking up most of the sofa with his keyboards in his lap...

It's nice, and it's nostalgic, because there are people and beer and cheer, and also Bilbo had correctly assumed that having fun and playing music around Thorin long enough would lead _somewhere._

The kids entertain everyone by picking up and going with a couple of famous riffs, _Smoke On The Water_ or _Road to Hell,_ the usual, but Thorin is hovering in the room as well, sulking with his beer, and it takes but one look in Bilbo's direction for Dwalin to decide to bug him further. Always fun.

Fili understands as well, and modifies the melody on his keyboard, and Kili lights up and picks it up as well, and an appreciative 'Hey!' comes from Bofur and Nori, while Dori and Thorin roll their eyes and groan in unison, but the song is too good, it's too much fun.

Soon enough, everyone is singing along, at varying degrees of quality, Fili leading them, and even Bilbo is being adorable and bobbing his head to the rhythm of it, and Thorin is trapped, his bottle of beer stuck to his lips just so that he has an excuse not to open his mouth and join in, but Dwalin abuses the coffee table even more, drumming with a vigor that threatens to break it in half, ashtrays and mugs rattling, and people are laughing into their singing, and Fili is improvising chords, and Bilbo elbows Thorin in the side, making him choke on his beer a bit and glare daggers, but really...

Dwalin doesn't know if it's just him who experiences it, but it's like his heart _really_ remembers how to beat when Thorin joins in. His voice should, for all intents and purposes, be ruined all to hell, but it holds, albeit a tad roughly, and is as loud as ever, just as commanding, and Fili is an excellent singer, but this is Thorin's song, and he comes back to it like one comes back to an old lover, tenderly but resolutely. It's etched in his very bones, in all of their bones.

“Fuck this,” Thorin grumbles when they finish and people are clapping and cheering scarcely, looking immensely pleased – but it's not him giving up, exactly the opposite in fact.

He finds the nearest guitar and wedges himself onto the armrest of the sofa, nodding to Fili to help him tune his instrument, their heads bowed together for a moment, and Bilbo winks at Dwalin when he looks at him, and when Thorin declares resolutely, as if daring someone, anyone, to tease him about his previous reluctance: “From the top.”, Dwalin thinks he might just start believing in miracles again.

And so they go for it, one of their oldest, their first ever chart-topper, and Thorin's guitar adds exactly the flair it's been missing, as does his voice. _In to deep, grasp and keep, grasp and keep..._

But it is only when Dwalin catches the little exchange between him and Bilbo, the PR bunny watching his manchild uncharacteristically solemnly, a small smile dancing on his lips, and Thorin looking up and catching his gaze, and holding it humorlessly, but sneaking in a smile of his own when he bends back over his instrument, his hair falling into his face...

Well, it's then that Dwalin thinks, _oh yes._ Things _will definitely start happening now._

 

_I was free just yesterday_

_Today I'm in to deep_

_My soul for you to grasp_

_My soul for you to keep_

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So much fun, making up your own lyrics. Not really /hides  
> Anyway yes, I wanted them to sort of get into the whole Misty Mountains singing point, but didn't want them to sing that actual song... Hmm. I hope this worked too :) The title is based on canonical Dwalin's twin axes that are called Grasper and Keeper. But yeah, we'll see how these two old farts work with Fili and Kili, that's bound to be fun 8D


	4. Second Hand News

Bilbo remembers his very first gig, the very first band he worked for after Gandalf had taken him under his wing and brought him along everywhere to teach him the ropes – his first solo job included a band called _Prized_ _Tomatoes_ and a lot of futile phone calls and convincing people that yes, he was being serious about representing four kids a couple of years younger than him, and that yes, Mr Owner Of A Nice Enough Club, you want to let them yell at the top of their lungs for at least forty five minutes next month, it'll be great for business.

That gig taught him to never take no for an answer, keep calling until  _someone_ picked up (and stop by in person if everyone refused to), always present the demands of the band as low as possible and work with what they'll get,  pronounce the name of said band with a straight face,  and last but not least, to  try and  _not_ set up performances in joints wh ere the manager wears nothing but leather pants and tattoos for a top, and asks you if your band would be willing to play wearing bondage harnesses.  _It's a wacky world out there_ doesn't quite sum up all the annoying, off-putting, or even borderline creepy things and people he's had to deal with in his career.

But  there are benefits as well, usually in the form of age-old friends who are willing to go out of their way to help – especially if they owe you a favor.

“ _Durin's Bane_? You're kidding me, right? What is it, 199 8?”

_This_ particular club manager is a truly ancient acquaintance of both Bilbo's and Gandalf's – both of them agree he hasn't changed a bit in the past fifteen years, aside perhaps from a couple of new inks. But other than that, Beorn is still his huge imposing self, with arms the size of tree trunks and a propensity for laughing a lot, very loudly and deeply.  _The Den_ has maintained its status of a well-respected place for decades thanks to him, and he runs it with an iron fist and a healthy dose of attitude, not letting just anyone in, especially not washed out rockers looking for a second chance. Alas, Bilbo must try.

“Yes, I wish,” he offers a pained, surly smile, “would make everything easier, wouldn't it.”

Beorn measures him almost compassionately.

“How on earth did you come by that steaming wreck of a band?” he asks with genuine concern, “you're better than that, bunny boy!”

“Yes, well,” Bilbo clears his throat, forcing himself not to roll his eyes at that fond nickname, “I needed the money? No, that's a bad excuse. I'm doing it because I believe in them. They are all up for a second chance.”

“Didn't you get, like, _children_ to fill the band? What do _they_ need a second chance for?”

“The lead's nephews, yes. They're young, but I'm thinking that's exactly what the band needs... Look, what do you think? Yes or no?”

“I don't know, Bilbo. Can't say I'm keen on it, you know my crowd is used to their regulars. Besides, no matter how beyond all recognition they might be now, I still don't have enough money to pay for an evening with fudging _Durin's Bane._ ”

“Oh no, but that's the beauty of it,” Bilbo switches on his best and brightest convincing grin, “ _anyone_ can afford them now.”

-

 

“For _free?!_ You are joking, right? We are absolutely _not_ playing for free! I mean, who the fuck do you think we are-”

“I don't know, Thorin, why don't _you_ tell me who you think you are,” Bilbo hisses, the visual of him staring up at Thorin like David checking out Goliath amusing _and_ appealing at the same time, “because it sure as hell isn't someone people are willing to _pay money to see_ just yet. It's admirable that you have enough _pride_ to think you're up for this, but reality check, guess what – the name _Durin's Bane_ doesn't open  doors anymore, it does the exact opposite. So if you want back out there at all, I'm sorry to break it to you, but you're going to have to start small again.”

“Forget it,” Thorin snarls, “absolutely not.”

Bilbo opens his mouth to spout more convincing insults, but Dwalin decides to step in, feeling rather gracious.

“Look, _we_ don't mind doing it,” he announces, and Fili and Kili merely shrug and nod, predictably on his side in this, “and I'm thinking we'll go do it, with or without you.”

“You can't just do it without me-”

“Oh, I beg to differ.”

Thorin somehow manages to glare at all four of them with equally distributed grouchy intensity, but it _is_ four against one, and besides, Dwalin is very sure that he in fact _wants_ to do it as well, just won't be admitting it any time soon.

“It'll be good for you,” Bilbo tells him uncharacteristically kindly, ignoring his indignant huff, “test out that voice and everything.”

“My voice is just fine, thank you.”

“For three songs at a time in your living room? I'm sure it is.”

“Yeah, Uncle, when was the last time you had a real show anyway?” Kili asks entirely too cheerfully, snickering when Thorin makes a vague grab at him.

“Glastonbury, 2004,” Bilbo supplies sagely, “though calling it a show would be implying that listening to fifteen minutes of music followed by almost as long a period of swearing and breaking instruments has ever been worth paying money for.”

The boys laugh at that, but Thorin's slightly grumpy face turns stone-cold, and Dwalin's stomach drops as well, an entirely unwelcome thing for it to do. They exchange a quick glance, very much confirming that neither of them is quite ready to joke about that yet, and unsurprisingly at least to Dwalin himself, Thorin marches out of the room without a word – it's a wonder he doesn't kick over the nearest guitar on his way.

“Ah, brilliant,” Bilbo sighs and makes to follow him, but Dwalin stops him.

“No, let me.”

Bilbo casts him a look that's half compassion, half curiosity, but relents in the end.

“I'll be right back,” Dwalin announces simply, “with or without him.”

That prompts Kili to start humming U2's take on that particular sentence, and Dwalin pays them very little mind anymore, leaving them behind to find Thorin. He has retreated to the back porch for a smoke, predictably so, slouching against the door frame to not-quite-escape the light April drizzle, the quiet murmur of it the only sound for a very long time.

“We don't even have a setlist,” Thorin says at last, as if he's a kid complaining to his mother about some horrendous injustice, and Dwalin smiles.

“We'll use on of the old basic ones. Just a couple of songs, the kind of stuff you can play in your sleep. It'll be fun.”

“Not _Ravenhill_ though.”

“Oh god no. No, yeah, we're leaving that for when we're sure we won't get a heart attack.”

Thorin quirks an eyebrow.

“So probably never,” Dwalin decides, and that prompts at least _some_ laughter.

“Come on,” he prods further, “the kids are good enough, you know that. We'll have some fun, discover we're not as flexible as we used to be...”

“Don't need a show to tell me that,” Thorin harrumphs, but that's just small talk, just stuffing and playing for time, since he's not quite ready to say what he really wants to say.

“Yeah, we're too old for _breaking instruments_ and all that shit now, I suppose,” Dwalin takes an innocent shot, and Thorin rolls his eyes.

“Though I'm sure kicking through drums is fun for _all_ ages,” he continues jabbing at him.

“Okay, what do you want me to say? I'm sorry for wrecking your drum set a decade ago?” Thorin grunts, and Dwalin's eyebrows arch so high up he almost gets a headache.

“Well, it's a start,” he says, and Thorin watches him almost cautiously from the corner of his eye.

“It was a nice drum set, you know,” Dwalin notes conversationally.

“Yeah, I know.”

“A bloody expensive one, too.”

“Yes, I _know._ ”

“Never thought it would cost me a _career,_ but there you have it...-”

“Alright, alright, shut the hell up,” Thorin exclaims, “you wanna punch me again? Fine.”

“Nah. It's all forgiven,” Dwalin grins, and doesn't miss the genuine surprise on Thorin's face, no matter how quickly it flashes across it.

“Don't fuck with me,” Thorin grumbles, crossing his arms and pouting, grinding the cigarette between his teeth.

Dwalin simply chuckles, and watches him just to annoy him, and thinks, _it's been ten years, and you're still so easy to catch off guard._

It's been ten years, and it's _everything but_ forgiven, but that's simply for a lack of trying. On Thorin's part, mostly. One day, when they're seventy and wondering how they've survived until that age, Dwalin will tell him everything, he thinks. About how there was a time in his life when he was willing to forgive him at the slightest peep. He'd known then he didn't really have to, but it would have made him feel a lot better. But Thorin had always liked to let things fester, and so it took them years to look into each other's eyes, much less talk about anything even remotely reminiscent of wrecked instruments, and wrecked tours, and wrecked careers.

He recalls clear as day the look Thorin had given him mere seconds before he walked off stage and took the life of the band with him – split lip and a quickly swelling bruise on his jaw, eyes burning with a ferocious anger quickly turning into... just emptiness. Dwalin remembers very clearly how he himself had felt, among many other things, relief. Relief that finally, after weeks, _months_ of bottling everything up and yes, letting it fester, Thorin had let _something_ out in the open. Granted, he could have chosen a much better time and place than one of the most high-profile performances of their career, but there you have it. It wouldn't be Thorin if he didn't do everything with a bit of flair, even the downfall of his life's work.

He thinks the audience had been just as stunned as they were, Bifur and Dain and him, and even when the scattered laughter and applause rose, the people thinking – hoping – that it was all just a part of the show, the three of them knew that that was it, the last gig _Durin's Bane_ would ever do.

And Thorin stands here now, silver beginning to creep into his hair and eyes sunken, and somehow, it's difficult to believe he's the same man who abandoned them all those years ago. Or, well, perhaps he's a product of that man, isn't he.

“Look, forget about all that,” Dwalin sighs, sounding much more solemn than he'd wanted to, but continuing nevertheless, “let's just go do a show. Who knows, we'll probably find out we never should have crawled out of our respective hidey-holes, eh? But from what I understand, Bilbo's been pulling favors left and right to land us this gig...-”

“ _For free,_ ” Thorin spits, “we didn't even play for free when we were starting out, Dwalin.”

“Yeah, no, we played for beers and cigarettes and girls. Big improvement.”

Thorin glares at him almost inquisitively for a moment, all tense, but then he lets out an exasperated sigh and a very heartfelt: “I fucking hate this.”

“Yeah, I figured. It'll be fine, really,” Dwalin opts for kindness, a sentiment he whips out only every decade or so, “you listened to what Bilbo said, didn't you? He'll start us out really easy and small, no commitments. We can back out any time, and I'm pretty sure we're going to want to, at one point or another, but... well, it's worth a shot, don't you think?”

Thorin's expression is almost shockingly open for a moment, as if he's considering it, as if he's hoping, but then he merely rolls his eyes and sighs, shrugging.

“Come on now,” Dwalin continues annoying him, “or I'll go back myself and send Bilbo to deal with you.”

That prompts a very heartfelt whine, and Thorin peels himself off the wall at long last, following him inside, albeit highly reluctantly.

“Ah, the promise of short adorable PR managers wreaking havoc,” Dwalin declares solemnly, “never fails.”

“I _despise_ him.”

“'Course you do.”

“Almost makes me wish Balin were back.”

“Ooh, I'm telling!”

“Shut up. _Adorable_ PR managers, ugh. Certainly never thought of your fiend of a brother as _adorable._ ”

“Oh, the feelings of my entire family are deeply hurt. ...And are you saying Bilbo _is_ adorable? Oh, is that why you've been staring at his ass all this time?”

That's taking a _very_ cheap shot, but it works nevertheless – Thorin is _so_ easy, always has been and always will be. Faced with his stormy expression, Dwalin merely wiggles his eyebrows, and Thorin groans.

“I haven't been... shut up.”

“Ha,” Dwalin exclaims victoriously, stabbing his finger at him, and Thorin looks at it with distinct – and hilarious – disgust.

“To be fair, he does have a very nice little-”

“If you don't stop talking about asses right now, I'm going to kick yours.”

“Aww, of course you will,” Dwalin chuckles, and then, perfectly ready to dodge the blow that will inevitably follow those words, “you old hopeless romantic, you.”

_Just like old times,_ he decides when Thorin does grab at him and he trots ahead to evade it – and because he does have  _some_ compassion in him, he only thinks it, and doesn't say it out loud.

-

 

His fridge is overflowing with vegetables. The living room is regularly vented, and no one is allowed to smoke inside the house anymore. His father's reading room has been transformed into a rehearsal room which is, Thorin has to reluctantly admit, much nicer than the old one.  Bofur and Nori have taken it upon themselves to start picking apart the attic, on their quest for finding ancient unused instruments and pretty much anything interesting they can get their hands on, and Thorin doesn't have enough energy to stop any of it.

Or at least that's what he keeps telling himself – that it's all over his head. That he'd yell at them all, but has better things to do. That he only tolerates it to appease Bilbo. That he only tolerates Bilbo himself to appease Gandalf. That he's not enjoying any of this  _one single bit._

Bilbo keeps talking about fresh starts and new beginnings,  and Fili and him spend their time making blended fruit smoothie things for everyone; and he convinces Dwalin terrifyingly easily to flex his early-arthritis-ridden hands all the time and wear gloves when he's not playing to keep them warm... A nd  he  makes Thorin get up  _way_ before lunch, and  forces  him eat three times a day (when someone puts a finished meal in front of you you can hardly  _refuse to eat it,_ now can you, especially when it smells so delicious...), and he's there from that point on until after everyone leaves in the evening, and Thorin is slowly but steadily running out of ways to keep him away, and reasons why he should.

Which won't stop him from glaring daggers and disagreeing with him every chance he gets, of course, but you know what they say about old habits.

But for all his clairvoyance, not even Bilbo can quite see what's really bothering him, Thorin knows. Dwalin probably realizes, but Thorin certainly won't go around advertising his insecurities to anyone else. It's just that... He teaches Fili and Kili all of _Durin's Bane's_ more obscure songs, and watches them perfect the famous ones, and the speed with which they achieve all of that impresses him, but also scares the crap out of him.

They're good, and they're eager, and they're young, and Thorin feels like he's none of those things anymore, very simply put.

They have a little short of a month to get ready for their first show – _for free,_ a nagging voice reminds him every time he's anywhere in the general vicinity of feeling the least bit cocky – and there was a time when he was perfectly happy to let all his days blur into one and live through weeks after weeks not really keeping track of time, but not quite as much anymore. Not when the prospect of reliving some of his less savory memories looms on the horizon.

“Just jam through it,” Dwalin used to say, and he says it now as well, and Thorin has enough wherewithal about him to listen for once.

Re-familiarizing himself with all the old songs is like kickstarting a rusty engine that has lain unused for years – the lyrics he used to be able to recite drunk in his sleep escape him at first, the familiar harmonies don't quite form themselves under his fingers, and his voice fails him at the least convenient moments. But he jams through it, barely ever lets go of his guitar, plays until his fingers are cramping and rewrites his lyrics on scraps of paper just because when no one is around, humming the melodies that go with them under his breath, hoping that it will be enough.

He doesn't know what's changed – well, maybe it really was just Bilbo, quite literally barging into his life and setting a new speed for it, dragging him along whether he likes it or not – but he's suddenly worried, worried that if he doesn't keep up, he won't get another chance.

Not that anyone needs to know that of course, ever.

“You'll do just fine.”

The eve of the first gig finds him in a stressful sort of high, practicing diligently with the kids and Dwalin until they're so tired they might as well call themselves satisfied, and he finds he doesn't really want them to leave – feels somewhat safer with them around. And besides, the next time they'll see each other, they'll be headed to _The Den_ , and ugh, Thorin hates how nervous all that makes him feel.

“Uh-huh,” he grumbles, turning his back to Bilbo even though he's bringing dinner – well, second dinner slash late-night snack. If there is one agreeable thing about him, it's his very honest adoration for food in copious quantities, which means Thorin is better fed than he's been in years, and rarely scolded for raiding the fridge this late.

“Don't worry,” Bilbo continues on his quest to cheer him up, following him into the living room, “you guys sound great, you really do.”

Thorin turns to him, half expecting a _but,_ or any indication that Bilbo doesn't mean it, but instead of any of that, he receives a warm smile and a warm grilled cheese sandwich.

“Gandalf has a lot of faith in you, as do I,” Bilbo continues with his somewhat unsettling nice rhetoric, getting comfortable on the couch with a sandwich of his own, “and I promise the next place you'll play, I'll make sure they pay you in beers at least.”

“That would be nice,” Thorin snorts, slouching cross-legged on the carpet.

They eat in silence for a moment, but oddly enough, Thorin is the one who feels the need to fill it.

“What then?” he asks almost cautiously, mostly hoping Bilbo will not have heard him, but of course that's just a fool's hope.

“Then? When?”

“After... we start getting paid in beers,” Thorin waves with the remnants of his sandwich, “what happens next?”

“You know what happens next,” Bilbo reminds him gently, but decides to humor him before Thorin can grunt at him unhappily, “then we start getting you lot _really_ ready. Ori is already in the process of whipping up a new web page for you, which we'll get going once I've scheduled a couple more gigs for you. We won't be aiming too high at first, but we need to build up something to back us up if we want to actually negotiate the tour. Oh, and in light of all that, I'm going to start nagging you about writing something new, too. I'm pretty sure Fili and Kili are already working on something, but you know. Actual new material, that you guys create together. At least a song or two.”

“I don't want a restart,” Thorin mumbles, wiping toast crumbs off his mustache.

“No, yeah, I know. But as awesome as greatest hits tours always are, you know it's common courtesy to do a new piece or two. Just for fun.”

Thorin hmph's in a vague agreement, which seems to placate Bilbo for the time being, and he goes about taking care of some phone call, and Thorin knows he should be thinking of ways to make him go away, but he just can't bring himself to it – he realizes, not without horror, that he's gotten used to having people around, somehow, at some point, and he's not looking forward to the house going completely quiet again, if only for one night.

_This is all your fault,_ his glare at Bilbo says, but receives no response.

“I'm gonna go get a beer,” he mutters gruffly, “want one?”

“Driving,” Bilbo mouths at him while the person on the other end of his phone call chatters on, and Thorin rolls his eyes at his own stupidity.

“Pick out some music, then,” he suggests, and Bilbo frowns at him almost inquisitively at first, but shrugs and nods, moving to inspect Thorin's vast record collection.

Thorin isn't  _entirely_ sure what he's doing, but drinking beer with Bilbo and listening to... oh yeah, Fleetwood Mac, how predictable, definitely beats... well, drinking beer alone and thinking of all the ways tomorrow might turn out to be an absolute disaster.

The cheerful tones of  _Second Hand News_ even manage to improve his mood somewhat, and he has a soft-core insult about Bilbo's music taste all ready when he returns to the living room, but the sight he meets with kind of steals all his words away.

Bilbo is still on the phone with someone, but he's taken taken to... well, dancing is a stretch, but swaying in rhythm with the song, and Thorin's first thought is,  _if Dwalin could see you now. You actually_ are  _checking out your PR's ass._

Somewhat preoccupied, he doesn't notice at firs that Bilbo isn't gazing out of the window into the dark garden, but rather inspecting the back of... oh, not just any record. Thorin's stomach makes an unpleasant little flip when he recognizes it, and he hurries to Bilbo's side.

“Careful with that,” he says much more tensely than he'd planned, and Bilbo shoots him a curious look, nodding.

Thorin's hands hover over his, almost afraid the ancient fraying paper of the cover will disintegrate under his touch – Bilbo makes his way back to the sofa and finishes his call in the meantime, finally giving Thorin his full attention.

“Don't worry,” he says, “I just wanted to read the tracklist... you said it was scratched? May I?”

“Almost snapped in half really... Ugh, gimme. Let me.”

He pries the record out of Bilbo's hands, and fortunately, he doesn't resist much. Thorin feels his gaze on him as he slides the record out of its case very slowly and carefully, reluctant to even touch it for fear of it falling apart at long last. The scuffs seem worse and worse each time he looks at it.

Bilbo takes the cover from him, and leans closer as if there's something interesting there to be seen besides the scratches. He hisses compassionately as he traces the deepest one, almost cutting through the vinyl, and Thorin's silly heart skips a beat.

“How did it happen?”

“Long story,” Thorin utters tersely, and then, faced with Bilbo's scolding but inquisitive look, he sighs, “doesn't matter. I saved it a long time ago, but obviously it's ruined.”

“Not entirely, though, right? I know a guy who might-”

“No.”

“Oh, come on. It's bad, but with a bit of professional polishing-”

“Leave it.”

Bilbo opens his mouth to protest some more, but seems to digress in the end.

“ _Homeward Journey,_ ” he reads out loud, “Thrain Durin, featuring Buddy... _the_ Buddy Holly?”

“Yep,” Thorin nods, a bit proud.

“Wow. I would love to listen to _that._ What is this, like the last copy in the world then?”

“Possibly,” Thorin shrugs, and when Bilbo gives him a very 'I highly doubt that' grimace, he sighs and turns the record over ever so gingerly, Bilbo leaning in like a curious kid to see better, ooh'ing when he notices what he's supposed to notice, fingertips dancing over the surface but never quite touching the ancient autographs of both Thorin's grandfather and Holly.

“Maybe not the very last one in the world,” Thorin declares, “but definitely special.”

Bilbo smiles brightly and lets Thorin put the record back in its case, a bit taken aback when Thorin hands it to him to keep reading the back – much like with the rest of this evening, he's not quite sure what he's doing, but if inspecting Bilbo's face as his eyes dart from one line of Thorin's grandfather's biography to another will help put his mind at ease, then he won't question it, just this time. In the background, Fleetwod Mac are promising that when tomorrow comes, it'll be better than before, and for once, Thorin is inclined to believe it.

-

 

He finds quickly that he's missed this – the rush of people, the pre-performance jitters, making sure that everything and everyone is ready and in their place... He arrives at Thorin's place early after having left rather late last night, to make sure that the hour he needs to fully wake up and act like a human being starts as soon as possible, and the others start appearing early on as well, Fili and Kili first, Bofur and Bombur with Nori and the van they've gotten god knows where (after a week of learning about Nori, Bilbo has stopped asking too many questions), which will serve as their means of transport today and possibly in the future as well, provided it's spacious enough to fit all the equipment  _and_ people... Gandalf sees fit to oversee everything as well, his laughter carrying wherever in the house Bilbo currently is  currently  supervising things, and Dwalin arrives last, at lunchtime, and everything seems to be in order. 

Everyone is ready, and actually kind of exhilarated. All wires and instruments are accounted for, the band all have clean outfits to put on, Dwalin's hands don't hurt too much, Thorin hasn't started nervously chainsmoking just yet... Everything is happening on time, which means that something somewhere is bound to go wrong. Bilbo has been in the business far too long to know that at least one tiny thing has to go awry, one mic not working, sheets unaccounted for, at least one band member with a horrendous headache...  _something,_ for the actual show to progress smoothly.

But no, they load everything into the van in time, Gandalf refrains from too many comments, Bilbo even has the time to make sandwiches for the road, Thorin follows all his instructions and doesn't at any point show  _any_ signs whatsoever of locking himself up in his bedroom and refusing to come out... it's a bit too good to be true.

They set out with time to spare, and Bilbo calls Beorn from the car just to make triply sure of everything – Bofur in the driver's seat next to him chatters away, and Bilbo's gaze keeps meeting Thorin's in the rear view mirror, and Fili and Kili are humming  _Grasp and Keep_ under their breath, and Dwalin is slurping on his strawberry-banana smoothie, and it's. Too. Good. To be. True.

“Play nice,” Bilbo utters to Thorin as they enter _The Den_ and happen upon Beorn first thing, his massive frame all but filling the small foyer.

“ _Durin's Bane,_ in all its newfound glory!” the hearty manager exclaims, and the kids snicker and cast wide-eyed looks to all the impressive posters on the walls, signed or not, while Dwalin seems more interested in the vintage drum set in the corner, once having belonged to this or that icon of the local scene, the ancient and often ruptured heads of its parts now serving as just more room for musicians to leave their autographs.

“So good of you to have us,” Bilbo switches on his most disarming smiley persona, “let me introduce the new band – this is Fili, keyboards and vocals, Kili, bass because his Uncle never lets him play guitar, yes, we know Kili... Dwalin on the drums, that will never change, and of course the lead staying very much the same as well, Thorin Oakenshield.”

“A pleasure to have you all,” Beorn booms, shaking everyone's hands vigorously, but Bilbo knows he's just as cautious as he himself about this whole thing – after all, no one can really vouch for how this will go, not yet.

Thorin only casts Bilbo a vaguely amused look, recognizable even through his aviators, and Bilbo would very much like to think that that'll be it for today's excesses.

They have a lot of time until they go on, and so Bilbo herds the band in the dressing room and makes them all eat and drink and slowly start tuning both their instruments and their vocal cords, while the tech guys, swiftly proving much more skilled than Bilbo would have ever hoped, do their thing with Beorn's people on the actual stage.

“They'll do just fine,” Gandalf tells him, the two of them catching a moment alone, Bilbo having dared to leave the band alone for ten minutes – they hover in the back of the club's lounge, ever so slowly filling with people, and Bilbo can't stop checking the clock on the far wall _and_ his watch both.

“Yeah, no, I know, I know.”

“You're doing great, too,” Gandalf continues to sound very supportive, and yet not quite get through to Bilbo, “proceeding much faster than I ever would have anticipated. We'll be selling out Carnegie Hall this time next year at this rate.”

“Ri-ight,” Bilbo chuckles, “how incredibly Beatles of us. No, forget that comparison, Thorin might hear me and scratch my eyes out.”

“Everything seems to be in order up there,” Bofur announces, having found his way to them and appeared out of the blue, “nice place, this. Can't believe we never got here in the nineties.”

“It's a miracle we got here now,” Bilbo mutters, “I hope you paid for that beer you shouldn't be drinking.”

“Beorn is a bit of a stickler for finances,” Gandalf explains, “won't let just anyone in, and will definitely make sure you don't see a penny of tonight's profits.”

“Tone it down with the honesty,” Bilbo hisses, glancing across the room cautiously, “it's not too late to be thrown out.”

“And he seemed so nice,” Bofur shakes his head, “how _did we_ get in in the first place, then?”

“Oh, I, uh...”

“A favor for a favor, eh?”

Beorn also has a knack for materializing out of thin air, and Bilbo staggers a bit under the force of his slap on the back.

“Yes, well, that's one way to put it,” he nods a tad nervously.

“You see, Bilbo here once saved me from a very unsavory-”

“Let's not go into detail, shall we?” Bilbo hurries to interrupt, and Beorn laughs richly.

“It's embarrassing for the both of us, believe me. Anyway, are your boys ready? We'll start letting people in.”

“I'll go see right away,” Bilbo announces and hurries to do that before anyone can protest, very grateful that he has a way out of reliving _that_ particular awkwardness. Beorn is a friend, yes, but there are some things not even long-term acquaintances should ever witness... Oh well. Bilbo shudders slightly at the memory before entering the dressing room containing his band, but all embarrassment is swiftly forgotten when faced with the band in question, painfully incomplete.

“Where's Thorin?” he demands to know.

“Peanut run,” Fili announces casually.

“Peanut – peanut run?” Bilbo blabs.

“Oh, right, did we never mention that?” Dwalin wonders, sprawled across the entirety of the only couch in the room, reading one of the ancient _Rolling Stone_ magazines he'd found, twirling a drumstick between his fingers at the speed of light.

“I... don't think so?”

“Ah, a noble tradition of _Durin's Bane,_ ” Kili announces, adding sheepishly when Dwalin scoffs at him, “or so I hear.”

“Right, so what is it actually about?” Bilbo asks, checking his watch again – but all his nerves are dispelled by Thorin barging inside at long last, followed by Bofur, Bombur and Nori as well, much to Bilbo's confusion.

“One measly bag,” he grunts, waving the poor price at them, “ _and_ I had to pay for it. That's what you get for playing for free.”

“Yeah, yeah, you're welcome,” Bilbo offers a surly excuse for a smile, “so what is this tradition everyone except for me seems to know about?”

 

He's almost forgotten that this is what his job has always been about – this is why he does it. Not the money, certainly not fame, because he doesn't get any, and definitely not because he doesn't have a choice. Hell, he could go out there and do a dozen other things, and probably be just as successful, but it's the things that, for a lack of a less cliché term, one can't put a price on – spending evenings listening to your band's old records, watching their old hilariously awful videos. Learning their bios, and learning things one can never find in any bio ever. Learning their pre-performance traditions, even though (and especially when) they include catching peanuts in your mouth thrown to you by the lead singer.

Standing there with all of them sitting around you like children in a class, expecting to hear something encouraging, something supportive and uplifting... Knowing you can give them as much.

Nothing going wrong, every once in a while.

Standing on that invisible but very tangible line separating the stage and backstage, and watching them cross it, their instruments waiting for them up there in the beams of light, along with the thrumming beast of the audience's expectation.

Bilbo has been to concerts for fifty and concerts for five thousand, and it doesn't make that much of a difference, from where he's standing. His job is always the same, making sure everything moves along smoothly.

And as he stands there, his eyes glued to Thorin bending over his guitar and strumming the first chords of the very first song, there isn't a sliver of doubt in Bilbo's heart that he will take them from fifty to five thousand, in no time flat.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, hey, actually managed an update. So sorry it's taking so long guys. I mentioned over at tumblr that I'm super busy with studying for my exams right now, and so the trickle of updates might slow down a bit. Anyway, hope you enjoyed this! The title of the chapter is, of course, the song Bilbo and Thorin listen to together, the first track on Fleetwod Mac's album Rumours, which is utterly excellent, in case you haven't listened to it. Kind of got the idea that Thorin is feeling a bit like second hand news himself, so it all fit together.


	5. Family Values

The sad thing about walking in on someone naked is, you always end up...  _seeing_ things. There's just no avoiding it. No erasing that image from your brain either, no matter how hard you might try.

The first time it happens, Bilbo distinctly remembers letting out a highly undignified little shriek of shock, slamming the bedroom door he'd just walked through shut and hiding his embarrassed blush behind it while Thorin cursed inside.

The second time involved a very ill-timed morning phone call and Bilbo dashing to find both his phone and Thorin's bare arse in the kitchen, complaining about being roused too early and not caring in the slightest that neither Bilbo nor Gandalf on the other end of the line had much appreciation for his frolicking.

The third time, Bilbo dropped a plate, and Thorin used a dishcloth to cover his bits, the dainty floral pattern haunting Bilbo's dreams to this day.

“Why does this keep _happening?!_ ” he exclaims desperately on the fourth momentous occasion, staring resolutely at the ceiling, and Thorin, who seems to have absolutely no sense of shame _or_ any intention of remedying the situation, retorts grumpily: “It's you who keeps showing up unannounced.”

“It's you who keeps prancing around the house naked – put something on for pity's sake!”

“In my defense,” Thorin declares solemnly, tying the nearest apron around his waist (which of course leaves the issue of his, yes, bare arse, once again), “I was doing that long before _you_ came along. Hardly my fault there's more people in the house these days.”

“ _Accommodate_ these people, I'm _begging you,_ ” Bilbo groans, and Thorin lets out a disapproving huff, moving on to inspect the contents of the fridge.

“No point,” he decides simply.

“No point – no point? Look, your bare hairy caveman chest is something I did get used to, _eventually,_ but this is... I'm not getting paid enough if my job includes staring at your ass!”

“Oh, so you _have been_ staring. I wondered.”

Bilbo opens his mouth to retort, but words fail him – instead, he resolutely  _doesn't_ stare, and turns back to his work waiting half done on the counter, fruits waiting to be sliced and put in the blender. Thorin makes a sound that might be a pleased chuckle, and Bilbo rolls his eyes.

“You are so inconvenient.”

“Hmm, haven't been called that before,” Thorin says, now _inconveniently_ close, leaning over Bilbo's shoulder to steal an apple slice – while wearing nothing but that damn apron, of course.

“Really?” Bilbo glares at him, heat in his cheeks.

“Mmwhat?” Thorin chews innocently.

“Oh, god, Uncle, too much, too much!”

That's Kili, exclaiming and covering his eyes theatrically the first step he takes into the kitchen, and Thorin does jump at that a little bit, sighing as if he's disappointed that this cute little moment has been ruined.

“You are scarring the youth,” Bilbo informs him casually.

“Means I've been doing my job right.”

“Go put something on.”

“Make me.”

“We should warn you – we didn't come alone,” Fili notes, seemingly unperturbed by the spectacle, only excited to see what kind of smoothie Bilbo has planned for today.

“Oh? Is Bofur with you guys?” Bilbo asks, “did he finally manage to get those new wires...?”

“Not exactly.”

“Ah, there he is, my brother in all his glory – the naked hairy caveman look still going strong I see.”

It's always funny, watching Thorin's expressions betray his innermost thought processes – he thinks he's so mysterious, and yet he wears his emotions on his face all the time, plain as day. Right now, his eyes widen in a nasty shock, and his clenched jaw and stormy glare ask only one question – Bilbo raises his hands in self defense,  _I had no idea,_ and Thorin scowls, as if all of this is causing him actual physical pain.

Ever so slowly, he turns around, and because that means Bilbo is going to have to deal with his bare behind again, he leaves the fruits to their own devices and Fili, and peeks out from behind Thorin to see the newcomer.

She is a rather stunning woman, in that stern no-nonsense way that is a family trademark, in much the same way that mountains are stunning, all sharp features and the sense of looming majesty – but unlike her brother, all of that is groomed to perfection, hair flowing about her face in neat waves, her eyes softer, but more focused. She's only a little younger than him, Bilbo thinks he recalls, but she looks infinitely more poised, determined, resolute. Right now, she's sizing her b rot her up and down,  not with outright disapproval, but certainly with what might be called amused exasperation, and Bilbo adores her already.

“Dis,” Thorin says tightly, “exciting of you to turn up out of the blue.”

“And at the right time, too, it would seem,” she nods, then grins, “come on, big brother, you don't have to act like everyone's out to get you all the time, you know. I'm not going to hug you until you put on more than an apron, but I _will_ admit to being glad to see you.”

“And it only gets worse from now on,” Fili utters to Bilbo, who is still rather starstruck.

“Oh, and Bilbo! It's so wonderful to finally meet you in person,” Dis exclaims, pushing past her scantily clad brother to shake Bilbo's hand vigorously.

“The pleasure is all mine,” Bilbo beams.

“Well, I can see you've been taking good care of my family,” she casts a curious look to the hoard of fruits Fili is currently tending to, “but I wasn't aware that mixing healthy drinks was in a PR manager's work description these days.”

“Hah, well, yes...”

“He cooks, too!” Kili informs excitedly.

“When _the job,_ ” Bilbo points with his head to Thorin, “requires it.”

“I see, I see,” Dis smiles, and goes about inspecting the innards of the fridge without much ado, obviously having mastered the art of handling Thorin by simply ignoring his presence long before Bilbo could even spell _Durin's Bane._

“I'm sorry, _what_ are you doing here exactly?” Thorin will have none of it, though.

“Can't a sister simply visit her brother every once in a while, especially since he apparently remembers to shower these days?”

“Very funny. And no, you can't just _visit_ out of the blue like this. Did _he_ put you up to this?”

“Hey!” Bilbo defends himself.

“ _He_ didn't even know I was coming, I believe,” Dis says, now on an exploratory journey around the kitchen, gazing out of the window into the garden, trailing her fingertips on the windowpane, “I heard there was a show tonight, thought it would be a good idea to go see for myself that you still got it.”

“That's it?” Thorin grunts, and if it weren't for the floral pattern of his apron, he'd probably succeed at looking vaguely menacing.

“Family bonds and all,” she shrugs, “I believe there's lunch on the way? We'll talk then. _Please_ go change.”

“It wasn't even us,” Kili explains helpfully, “Dwalin called her, apparently. She just... _decided_ to come along with us, you know – hey, wha-at?”

Half indignation half giggles, he barely dodges his mother's expert blow with a dishcloth she'd stolen off the counter, while Thorin rolls his eyes, and Fili shakes his head solemnly, switching on the blender, to put a very resolute, and a very _loud_ , end to the debate.

Quite enjoying this little display of familial dynamics, Bilbo laughs, and Thorin grants him a properly scorching glare before finally wisely deciding to retreat, and heading out of the kitchen – Dis is, however, still wielding her weapon, and smacks him with it where there is no apron to cushion the blow, his surprised yelp among the most hilarious sounds Bilbo has ever heard.

It's not every day you see your client walking away while muttering unhappily and rubbing his naked bum, and Bilbo will be sure to cherish it.

“Can we talk?” Dis appears at his side, their agreement to move somewhere where the whirring of a Fili-operated blender isn't drilling into their skulls wordless and unanimous.

They leave the boys to their devices and wander out into the garden, the fresh late-April air obviously to the liking of both of them, and Bilbo observes as inconspicuously as possible as she looks around, scrutinizes the trees and the unkempt lawn, the bushes growing wild – if there is any emotion at all behind that, she hides it well, and he certainly won't pry.

“It's been six or seven years since I last stepped foot in here, you know,” she says somewhat quietly, “nothing's changed.”

“Really? They tell me everything's changed,” Bilbo smiles.

“Oh yeah? Who told you that, Dwalin? He's used to seeing this place through an alcoholic reverie, I wouldn't trust his judgment,” she retorts, but it sounds almost fond.

He chuckles, and she gives him her full attention, sizing him up and down, which makes him somewhat uneasy.

“It really is good to meet you in person,” she notes, and he relaxes somewhat.

“Oh, right back at you. _Why_ are you here, again? I mean, don't get me wrong, we could always use one more person who knows how to put Thorin in his place, but...”

She laughs, her entire face softening, crinkles fanning around her eyes, and Bilbo thinks he sees a ghost of something different, something sadder in her gaze as it returns to the house.

“Yeah, yeah, I know. We talked about it with Dwalin – Thorin starting over has made all of us...” she trails off, then looks back at Bilbo, more curious, as if actively deciding to leave whatever she'd wanted to say unfinished, “how has he been?”

“Oh, dandy,” Bilbo grins, recognizing far too well his cue to offer her a way out of talking about... whatever she doesn't want to talk about, “you know him. I mean, you _actually_ know him, far better than I do.”

“Right,” she sniggers, then, casual as you please, “has he been drinking?”

“Not... not excessively, as far as I know,” Bilbo offers somewhat faintly, and then when she continues staring, he adds, “I keep track of all the alcohol in the house. It's mostly just beers these days. Stuffing him full of fruit smoothies tends to help, even though he complains. Everything is-”

“Better spiked, yeah, I remember,” she finishes for him.

They continue in companionable silence, Dis walking deeper into the garden and Bilbo following her even though he doesn't really know why he should – there's something about her that puts him at ease, and makes him curious at the same time.

“He has... stages, you know,” she supplies casually, stopping by one of the bushes and caressing its leaves gently with her fingertips, “periods. Productivity, anger, apathy... It's a fluctuating thing. Gandalf had obviously caught him at a good one, making him agree to all this.”

“It's not so bad,” Bilbo says cheerfully, though he feels like he's only saying it for her benefit, “for now.”

“That's because it's still going,” she smiles somberly, to herself, “the productive stage. It won't always... Ah, forget it. You've got him on a good track. Routine is good for him. Purpose. Smoothies.”

He laughs and she chuckles a bit, but still looks at him all wary, as if she's expecting him to admit to something, or alternatively confirm some of her unvoiced assumptions about him.

“Just thought I'd warn you, it's only fair,” she mutters, and he can _see_ there's something else on her mind, but they've known each other for about twenty minutes, and it's not his place to make assumptions about _her._

“Thank you,” he smiles, “I've been on high alert since day one, though. So far it's just making him rehearse regularly, and curbing being an asshole.”

“Well, good,” she sighs, “I'm sure you have what it takes. Just be ready for anything. After all, we both know that ultimately, he actually _is_ an asshole.”

They both laugh again, and Bilbo watches her inhale deeply and look up at the treetops, and he can practically sense the chip on her shoulder, but he has no way of making her talk any more – and besides, he's far too preoccupied thinking about what she's already said.

 

All in all, he figures as he becomes a part of a family lunch that is, if anything, hilarious, it's all been going very well. Far too well. Not at all like he'd anticipated. The house fills with people, and they actually eat in the old dining room that they only ever use for meetings when Gandalf is around, and there's loud chatter and laughter and mild insults on all sides, and good food, and Bilbo watches Thorin, and knows he's happy like this, even though he would never admit it.

He needs people. Needs to be surrounded by them, perform for them, interact with them, for his creative juices to flow – Bilbo won't begrudge him his time alone, understands that he needs a break from his showmanship persona (as dormant as it still might be right now), but this is enough for him to know, realize once again, that yes, routine is good for his client. Purpose. Their first performance had been a smashing success in that people actually clapped, and no one broke anything, and they got through the entirety of their eight songs without incident, and Bilbo remembers _really_ seeing it then in Thorin's eyes as he walked off the stage – that almost ferocious excited _gleam_ one has when they're truly _alive._

Bilbo had wished then he could be there in the audience and see his face – as it was, he only got to hear his voice, and even though the club was tiny, and the sound prep could have used some tweaking, even though they were cautious at best in replaying their ancient hits, it still had power, and an energy to it that was enough to really convince Bilbo that they would be able to do this.

It's been over two weeks now, and as he sits wedged in between Dwalin and Fili, laughing along as they joke about this or that, he realizes that he's still riding on a high from it. Somewhat.

The next performance is tonight, yes, and right now, it's very difficult not to feel like everything is going their way, and will continue to do so, for good. That the worst of Bilbo's problems will continue to be avoiding a naked Thorin in the mornings, and avoiding staring when he does run into him...

But of course the industry and the weather and fickle rock gods work in mysterious ways, and he'd do well to remember that.

Because yes, it turns out, Thorin Oakenshield ultimately _is_ an asshole.

-

 

Well, this is just fantastic. About the last thing he needs right now, too. It's been virtually years since he saw Dis in person – at least when they used to just speak on the phone, he could pretend that nothing's changed. But seeing her now, older and more tired, just like the rest of them, is... something Thorin deserves to be spared of, he thinks.

She wastes no time in wedging herself into his house like she'd never left, helping Bilbo prepare lunch, ordering the boys around, ordering _everyone_ around, and they don't even seem to mind all that much. And worst of all, she maintains that she just stopped by to play nice, as if it hasn't been years, as if their relationship hasn't been strained at best, for as long as he can remember.

He can understand her wanting to keep an eye on her sons, see that they're being treated properly, but what he _can't_ understand is the unease he feels, like something radiating off of her, something she isn't telling either of them. Guess some things never change, and she's just as easy to read as she was when they were twenty.

But that doesn't matter now – they have a show to do, and Thorin has been conditioned by Bilbo to concentrate on that. If there is one thing he's sure he won't be admitting to anyone any time soon, it's the fact that... he relies on Bilbo. They all do, practically speaking. He's the active one, the responsible one, the one capable of making ten calls in five minutes and setting everything up – he seems to never run out of energy _or_ hope, and whatever doubts Thorin might have, Bilbo shuts them down, pays no attention to them, and simply pushes him forward until he almost starts believing it too; that they've got what it takes.

Well, they've certainly got what it takes to play at a local open-air festival for next to no money, that's for sure.

“Hey, at least we're in positive numbers now,” Bilbo announces cheerfully when someone brings it up, his curls bobbing in the passenger seat of their van, hazel eyes catching Thorin's gaze in the rear view mirror.

“What do you mean _now?_ Do we owe money somewhere?” Dwalin asks, to which Bilbo responds with a mock-harsh and conspiratorial: “Don't ask.”, before chuckling and waving them off, “no, no, don't worry, we don't owe any money. _Yet._ There's a lot of stuff there today that could potentially be broken, so I'd ask you all to behave yourselves though, yeah?”

Thorin rolls his eyes and Dwalin offers a lazy salute, and Bofur in the driver's seat comments: “That totally reminds me of that one festival we did in Ireland, remember that? With the tent?”

“Oh right, Dublin, wasn't it? The beer tent! Burned a hole straight through that.”

“You did _what?_ ”

“Wait, wait, I thought the beer tent was the one Thorin passed out in? Under the bar?”

“Hey!” Thorin straightens up, and immediately meets with three slightly amused gazes.

“What?” Dwalin tilts his head, “I'm pretty sure it's public knowledge. We _did_ pay a fine that cut like half off our profits, didn't we. Bilbo, you should have seen Balin, I think that was the year that his hair started graying prematurely.”

Thorin opens his mouth to protest, catching Bilbo's gaze again – he smiles at him, but shakes his head, _wouldn't expect any_ _thing else_ _from you,_ not outright derisive but certainly not... oh, what does it matter what he thinks? Shouldn't matter. Shut up.

“Ah, good times,” Bofur sighs happily, and there's much more understanding in Bilbo's eyes for _him,_ Thorin notes with some bitterness – he closes his eyes and leans back, resting his head against the side of the van, sighing deeply.

“Wasn't that the first time you broke a guitar?” Bofur asks a question he chooses to ignore, but then Dwalin chimes in, “pretty sure it was! _And_ pissed on someone else's equipment. Man, 1997 was a good year.”

Thorin kicks him in the shin, pleased that he doesn't miss even when blind, and groans: “Can we please shut up about all that now? I was very drunk, if I recall correctly.”

“Yeah, because _that_ makes it so much better,” Bilbo quips, and when Thorin's eyes flutter open to look at him, he's paying him no mind, already typing on his phone, unimpressed. Thorin pouts for the rest of the drive.

-

 

“So you're just... not going to tell him? Ever?”

“No, not _ever._ For now. And I'd thank you to do the same.”

“Do the kids know?”

“God, of course – _of course_ the kids know, come on.”

“Just wondering,” Dwalin shrugs, looking from her up at the sky – it's overcast and the air is uncomfortably humid, a clear sign that it will rain later, and it corresponds kind of nicely with Dwalin's current mood.

“Hey,” she nudges him, “I just didn't think it was such a good idea, telling him _before_ a show, you know.”

Dwalin glares at her, frowning.

“Should you be drinking that?” he points to her bottle of beer, and she snorts.

“I'm not pregnant. I'm pretty sure I'm allowed to drink whatever the hell I want, for now.”

He glares some more, taking note of the sharp angles of her jaw and cheeks, hollower now, and the shadows under her eyes – of course she would age the most gracefully out of all of them, but now that he _knows_ it's not just her forties waving goodbye that's causing her to look so tired, he... well.

“You're going to be fine,” he decides more than asks, and she halts, eyelashes fluttering, her smile uncertain, as if he's caught her off guard, but before she can answer, they're suddenly not alone anymore.

“There you are!” Bilbo calls cheerfully enough, but Dwalin knows better, knows that he's in fact seconds away from putting someone in their place – but the problem is obvious, that someone is missing.

“Haven't seen him,” Dwalin supplies before Bilbo can ask, and he groans.

“I'm going to kill him. We should start rehearsing soon – get backstage please?”

“Will do,” Dwalin nods, then looks to Dis, who simply shrugs, smiling amicably and measuring Bilbo with a curious intensity.

“This place isn't that big,” she suggests kindly, “just follow the noise, and people swearing.”

Bilbo laughs unhappily and scurries off again, and her gaze follows him as he navigates the crowd scattered in this particular makeshift grassy square in between a number of tents.

“He's good, yeah?” she asks somewhat distractedly, and Dwalin is more than happy to oblige with the change of topic.

“Oh, stellar, yeah. Annoys the shit out of Thorin on a daily basis. You should see them fighting, it's like watching a really good movie. Stick 'em in black and white and mute, and you have yourself a classic work of art. Fili thinks we should write a song about him.”

Dis giggles and Dwalin adds, somewhat dumbly: “We're in good hands, don't worry.”

She opens her mouth to respond, but all that comes out is a sigh that she drowns in her beer, and her smile is more on the somber side, and Dwalin curses himself for never learning how to be tactful.

“You should go backstage,” she tells him gently, “I'll go buy myself a hotdog. Go, shoo.”

But she is, in fact, the one who goes, and he watches her a bit helplessly, a bit out of place among all those people that are more the age of her sons, but confident nevertheless.

“Bring us some too?” he calls after her, and she raises a hand in acknowledgment.

He stands there by the tall wobbly table, and thinks he hears the distant rumble of thunder – his left hand cramps as if in agreement with that, as if his premature arthritis is a goddamn forecast, and he rubs some feeling back into it, and thinks, _we're definitely getting old._

-

 

Not that he'll be advertising this any time soon, but he's feeling at least ten years younger – the setup of this festival reminds him of all those shows they did way back when their chief concern was still free booze, when no one cared about rehearsing _or_ timelines too much, they just hopped on stage and played, and more importantly, had the energy necessary to do all that _and_ spend the night partying.

He hides behind his aviators and enjoys secretly glaring at all those people checking him out very suspiciously as he makes his way through the crowd, resisting the temptation to glare right back and find out if they're staring because they're trying to figure out if he is who they think he is, or because he just looks really old and out of place here. He doesn't care either way.

“Peanuts, please,” he demands at the nearest stand, realizing somewhat giddily that he can't wait to get back to his band – he scans his surroundings almost warily, as if there could be someone nearby clairvoyant enough to recognize his weird mood at one glance.

“ _That_ tradition's still going?”

Ah, should have double-checked.

“Thought you might be less likely to maim me if I fed your kids peanuts instead of one shot for each string on their instruments.”

“Ah yes, the Pianist's Alcohol Poisoning,” Dis sighs, “a classic.”

She munches on a massive hotdog with endearing vigor, her hair tied up all messily and her rose tattoo peeking out from underneath her plaid shirt, and Thorin can't help it, he sees her as if it were twenty years ago and she was still stealing girls and guys alike right from underneath his nose with her effortless charms.

“You gonna tell me what you're actually doing here any time soon?” he asks, tossing his newly acquired peanuts from one hand to another.

She ignores him, finishing her hotdog instead and commenting on the progress with sounds certainly not befitting her fancy art-gallery-owner self.

“God, this is delicious,” she moans with the clear purpose of annoying him, and then adds brightly, “Bilbo wants you backstage. Figuratively and otherwise. Ha!”

He avoids her punch in the arm and sets out to get there, not really surprised when she follows him.

“Happy to see you're still as lewd as you used to be, underneath all that _impeccably groomed_ exterior,” he retorts, “someone should tell your benefactors.”

“Oh, they know, that's why they love me so much. Honestly though, made a pass at him yet?”

“Made a pass at wh- oh shut up. The man who force-feeds me kale smoothies like three times a week? Yeah, he's the long-awaited love of my life.”

“I happen to think he's adorable,” she says casually, licking her fingers clean, happily undignified.

“Yeah? Then you do him,” Thorin grumbles, and she actually _giggles,_ eyebrows arching up high, as if she's actually considering it.

She looks perfectly, obnoxiously chipper, and he knows she's probably enjoying getting away from her hectic city life for one afternoon, but still, he can't shake the feeling that there's something... But eh, they've been out of touch far too long for him to just guess at what's going on, much less demand a straightforward answer.

That's why he pays it very little mind when she does follow him backstage and her sons and Dwalin all seem to think she's made of porcelain, getting her a place to sit and a drink. That's why he dismisses Dwalin's offhand remark about driving her home after the show with this or that borderline rude comment.

That's why he doesn't see – or pretends he doesn't see – her watching them perform, sitting next to Bilbo and looking somehow... smaller, older, more tired.

The music comes easy to him in that first half of the show, the lyrics right there when he needs them, people are reasonably excited and no one's throwing anything, and so he just concentrates on enjoying himself, and doesn't really... see.

Doesn't really think anything of it when it starts raining right after _Firemoon_ and everyone hurries to hide, or at least complains very loudly, except for Bilbo and Dis – she tells him something very quietly, and he stares at her, frozen, looks from her to Thorin... But that could mean anything. Of course.

They've been out of touch far too long, and he doesn't know enough of what's going on with her, and that's why he leads with a 'What's going on, who died?' when he goes to fetch a beer in the intermission and returns to her and Fili and Kili, and Dwalin and Bilbo all sitting backstage very quiet, and very still.

“It's nothing,” she smiles at him, somewhat weakly.

“Right,” he pfft's, “seriously, what's up? Inclu-ude me. Are we not getting paid? Bilbo, is that it? Oh, no no no, wait, did you tell _them_ what you're actually doing here? What is it?”

“Thorin,” Dwalin grunts, and there's a warning in that, but he chooses to ignore it.

“No, no, really, I'm curious,” he declares, sitting on the nearest available folding chair the wrong way around, tipping his beer bottle to her, mostly just being an asshole for the heck of it (and he can already see in Bilbo's eyes that he's going to pay for that later), “is that the thing you do where you just visit out of nowhere to tell people what you think they should do with their life? It _has_ been almost a decade after all.”

“You're an idiot,” she tells him fondly.

“And you're not here for the hotdogs and beer,” he counters.

“Uncle,” Kili pipes up, but Fili shoots him a warning look.

“You're right, I'm not,” she sighs, putting a reassuring hand on her kid's arm, “but let's leave it for after the show, alright?”

Thorin looks from her to Bilbo to Dwalin, both of them nodding all sagely, as if they've all reached some sort of agreement without him, and he feels a strange, hot spike of anger, and resentment, for Dis, for turning up at his doorstep out of nowhere acting as if nothing is wrong, for Bilbo, for acting like she's always been there, for Dwalin, for looking at her the same way he did twenty years ago – for all of them, for treating him like they know what's best for him by default.

“Not alright,” he growls, “I want to know. You here to pass holy judgment again? Or better yet, did Balin send you to spy on the situation so that you can then pass judgment _together,_ without actually involving yourselves in my life? Because I gotta tell you, that's about my favorite thing of yours to do.”

It's obvious that he's crossed a line, he can tell as much, but then again, when has he ever _not_ been crossing lines in his life? It doesn't matter.

“Fine, you want to know why I'm really here?” she says, low, stern, menacing, and if he had more common sense about him, he'd recognize the look in Dwalin's eyes as _real_ anger, and the looks in his nephews' eyes as _actual_ fear mingled with sadness.

“Probably the first time you'll be honest with me in twenty years, I say we give it a shot,” he shrugs.

“Yeah,” she exhales, “alright then. I've got breast cancer. Found out really recently, and I don't know, I... I actually thought I might be able to tell you this in, you know, a normal setting, like two _normal_ people, but obviously that's not an option. Can't believe I was worrying about preserving _your_ peace of mind, god. There's your honesty.”

-

 

All in all, he thinks he should have seen it coming. Maybe he'll buy Thorin a bell collar for him to wear, to keep track of him – or alternatively, one of those electrically charged and remotely operated ones, so that Bilbo can zap him with a pointed shock like a misbehaving dog. Extreme measures, perhaps, but it does bring him some relief to think like that, for at least a moment.

It's that first show that went off without a hitch two weeks ago, he decides. It must be. Karma is a bitch, and having no problems one time means an overabundance of them some other time.

The first half of today's performance went well, too, and that should have been his clue, really.

He even got to sit in the audience, for crying out loud. He _never_ gets to sit in the audience.

The band played, and people bobbed their heads along, and some of them even seemed appropriately excited, _hey, is it actually them, are they coming back, or what?_ , and Bilbo watched Thorin caressing his guitar with all the love he could give it, and was far too busy mapping out his mannerisms, or the remnants of them, the way he grabbed the mic every time he went from playing to singing, the way he would still look back at Dwalin to confirm the rhythm, and the way he grinned afterward, and if Bilbo were to close his eyes, he'd see them like this ten years ago, filling stadiums and halls, _knew_ that they'd fill them again... But then Thorin's sister had to go and ask very softly, ' _Do you think he'll be okay?'_ , and Bilbo looked at her and saw something else entirely.

“Why wouldn't he be?” he replied cheerfully, and she looked at him, eyes narrowing as if making a particularly difficult decision, and then she sighed: “I've got... something to tell him, and I don't know how he'll take it.”

“Oh? What is it?”

Above them, the sky decided that a bit of rain was needed to improve the ambiance, and Bilbo was about to start complaining and get up, but she said very quietly: “I've got cancer.”

And that was it, really.

They both looked from each other at Thorin, in unison, and Bilbo knew that karma was out to get them. Yeah.

Well. In an ideal world, their agreement not to tell Thorin would have lasted more than fifteen minutes. In an ideal world, Thorin would have acted like an adult upon finding out, and _not_ turn on his heel and leave. In an ideal world, a successful first show would have meant a successful second, and fifth, and twentieth show, and not actually having to _cancel_ a second show halfway through, because the lead singer disappeared. Oh well.

They wait, and Bilbo goes from sheer rage to stoic apathy, from swearing to apologizing to Dis, from pondering on organizing a manhunt to deciding to pack up and go home, and leave Thorin to his fate. A dozen missed calls is enough.

“It's fine, he does that,” Dis reassures him, “he'll turn up eventually.”

“I'll find him,” Dwalin adds, “seriously, Bilbo, just pack up, go back to the house, either he turns up with or without me. Come on, Dis, I'll give you a ride.”

“That's fine, I can take her,” Fili jumps in, and they engage in a brief argument, and Bilbo simply watches silently, and feels, most of all, furious with Thorin – they're right here, a family who loves him, and he's... where exactly?

“Don't be too hard on him, when you do find him,” Dis says as a goodbye, and Bilbo stares at her a bit incredulously.

“Oh, I'm planning on being _very_ hard on him.”

“It's okay, he's just... maladjusted.”

“To what? Acting like an adult?”

“Yeah!” she laughs, “and emotions in general, and the boundaries of normal social conduct. You'll get used to it.”

“I don't want to get used to it,” Bilbo grumbles, which seems to amuse Dis even more, and she pats his shoulder very companionably.

“Anyway, it was very nice meeting you, no matter the circumstances,” she grins.

“Yes, you too,” he sighs, “and I'm... I mean...”

“Yeah,” she nods, “come to think of it, normal social conduct isn't really a _thing_ in our family in general. Sorry I involved you in this particular family drama.”

“Oh, no no, that's alright, I'm just...”

“I'll be fine,” she smiles, “and depending on whether or not you find Thorin in a ditch somewhere today, we might be seeing much more of each other from now on.”

 

Not a ditch, but when he stumbles into the house long into the night, drunk and loud and clumsy, Bilbo has half a mind to bury him in one anyway.

“Seedy bar downtown,” Dwalin explains the circumstances, dragging Thorin in by the elbow while Bilbo observes, highly unimpressed, “let him drink for a bit and mope, but decided to get him home before he started punching things.”

“Excellent,” Bilbo groans.

“Excellent!” Thorin repeats, swaying on unsteady feet, measuring his surroundings as if he's seeing his own hallway for the first time, then promptly deciding to take off his shirt, which should be a simple task in theory, but he ends up all tangled up in it, and when he finally succeeds, he beams at them like a kid who's discovered how to build blocks.

Bilbo and Dwalin exchange a look.

“Let's get you to bed,” Dwalin sighs, then turns to Bilbo, “I'm kind of thinking I should stay overnight, but I have a thing tomorrow morning...”

“It's okay, I'll stay, make sure he doesn't...-”

“What? Wha-at?” Thorin babbles, “molesssst you? I don't do that anymore!”

“Good to know,” Bilbo utters icily, “I was thinking more along the lines of throwing up where you shouldn't.”

“Don't do that anymore either!” Thorin declares victoriously, and proceeds to sway dangerously, and produce a burp that's very close to disproving his statement.

After that, it's only a matter of trying to haul him up the stairs into his actual bedroom, soon realizing it's virtually impossible, and just tugging him in the vague direction of the nearest couch – Dwalin does most of the heavy lifting while Bilbo tends to the more practical things, like forcing him to drink a glass of water and fetching a bucket-type-thing to put next to the couch just in case.

Drunk Thorin is, in this stage at least, apparently very handsy, and prone to shedding layers of clothing at the most inconvenient of times, and with much determination – they're lucky they get him to collapse into the sheets wearing at least his boxers.

“You might not remember this,” Bilbo tells his hairy legs peeking out from under the covers, “but you're getting a real verbal smackdown tomorrow. Also, I'm waking you up with playing that old trumpet we found in the attic, and some ice cold water in your face.”

Dwalin guffaws a laugh and the Thorin pile mumbles something incomprehensible, squirming for a better position – they leave him to it, and Bilbo walks Dwalin out, trying not to think about how quiet and huge the house is around them.

“Make him pay, yeah?” Dwalin suggests, and yes, anger at Thorin is a better thing to concentrate on.

“Will do. Thanks for finding him.”

“Eh, wasn't my first time.”

“Well, I sincerely hope it was your last.”

“We'll see,” Dwalin chuckles, “night, Bilbo.”

“Good night. Drive safely.”

 

_Drive safely._ Bilbo watches as Dwalin's old car rattles in a big arc away from the house and down the driveway – the night is very warm, and he actually stands there in the door for a moment, just breathing it in. He's spent more time in this house than his own apartment over the course of the past couple of weeks, and yet it still feels oddly foreign to him as he pads to the kitchen to get a glass of water, for himself this time. He's never stayed this late, really.

Notebooks with hastily scribbled lyrics and notes lay scattered on the coffee table, along  with, oh yeah, that headband Kili's been searching for all day today, and Fili's leftover smoothie, ugh, god, Bilbo should really have made them clean up... Beyond all that, in all his drunkard majesty, the famed lead singer lay on the couch, latched onto his blanket like a little kid, but snoring like... well, like inebriated aging rockstar, and Bilbo stares at him somewhat dumbly – for all intents and purposes, he should feel disgusted, or indignant, or offended, but, well, he really should have seen this coming, and that's pretty much it.

Thorin shifts in his sleep, the muscles of his back dancing, making the dark dashes of the raven tattoo seem almost alive – the unruly tendrils of his hair pool in the sheets and around his arms, and Bilbo most certainly  _doesn't_ spend some time inspecting the frankly pretty incredible dipped curve of his spine leading lower...

“Well,” he concedes, shaking his head and turning away to flip the light switch, “you really are going to be a lot of work, aren't you.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Can I ever not add Dis? The answer is obvious. Anyway, guys, what an odd chapter for me to write. I've had so sinfully little time to write lately, so even this thing took like a week to finish, when I usually do it in like two days. I swear I didn't mean for this fic to be serious... ever. At all. And well... things started happening on their own, I can't explain it. Dis came along, messed with my plans pretty thoroughly. Still not entirely sure I'm happy with this chapter, but here it is! :)


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